the Discovery of Heart II
by Psyche0610
Summary: Obviously, a sequel to DOH. A mysterious killer is on the loose in London, and it is up to Sherlock Holmes to catch him. Unfortunately, he now has a liability that can be used against him, one that he had never had before... his wife.
1. Chapter 1

Yes! I'm finally back with the sequel. Unlike the first story, which had been in my head for years before I finally got around to writing it, this one is brand-new. And, I must admit, I was surprised at what I discovered happened to Sherlock and Sian after their marriage. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.

Disclaimer: No, I do own Sherlock Holmes, but I do own Sian, as well as several new characters, Jack, Violet, Ernest, Joseph, and undoubtedly a few others as well.

Chapter One

_Sherlock Holmes woke up. The rays of the morning sunlight were streaming through the narrow slit of the drawn curtains. He stretched lazily, and was shocked to realize that he wasn't alone in his bed; he could feel the warmth of a figure lying next to him. And not only was he not alone, but he was unclothed as well. Sherlock shot upright, panicked, embarrassed, until he saw just who it was sharing his bed. Sian. He sighed; he remembered now. He had married Sian, yesterday. He smiled and settled back down into the bed. He rolled to his side, so that he could watch her sleeping._

_Her blonde hair was spread across the pillow, spilling over the edge like a golden waterfall. He smiled. He tried to carefully take a lock in between his fingers, but he accidentally tugged too hard. Her chocolate eyes shot open and met with his own gray eyes, just inches across the pillow._

_"Hello, there," she whispered._

_"Good morning, Mrs. Holmes."_

_"Mrs. Holmes," Sian repeated. She smiled. "I like the sound of that."_

_"Me, too," Sherlock agreed. His arm bridged across the gap and drew her closer, joining his lips with hers._

Sherlock Holmes remembered that night fondly as he was walking home. The sun was shining bright, making it unseasonably warm for midwinter in London. It made a lovely January fifteenth. Holmes grinned. January fifteenth… his anniversary. It had been two years ago to the day that he and Sian were married. He glanced down at the bouquet of flowers he had in his hand. The dewdrops on the roses glistened in the sunlight.

Holmes opened the front door to 221B Baker Street, and saw a figure sitting on the floor, her back towards him. "Hello there, my love" he said with a grin. At the sound of his voice, she turned around, an incredible smile growing across her face.

"Hi!" she called. She climbed up and dashed into his waiting arms.

"How's my girl?" he asked as he kissed the top of her head. She nuzzled her face into his neck.

Sian walked in the room.

"Hey," she said. "I thought I heard you come home." She glanced at the girl in her husband's arms. "Violet's been waiting for you all day, you know."

"So I gathered from her greeting," he said, setting his baby daughter on the floor with a kiss. She crawled off in the direction of her rag doll. "Where's Jack?"

"Playing with his blocks in the kitchen," Sian said. "You know Jack. He loves the kitchen."

"Or, more precisely, he loves Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, because the dear woman spoils him to death with sweets," Holmes noted dryly.

"Well, I can't disagree with that," Sian agreed. She noticed that her husband was holding his arm awkwardly behind his back. "Alright, Sherlock, what do you have?"

"Happy anniversary, Sian," he said, presenting her with the roses.

"Oh, Sherlock," she breathed, inhaling the sweet smell of the flowers. The crimson of the petals matched precisely the garnet ring on Sian's finger.

"Two dozen for two years of marriage," Holmes said.

"Oh, Sherlock," Sian said again. She threw her arms around her husband, kissing him. Sherlock eagerly kissed her back.

"Up," a small voice commanded, interrupting the moment. Sherlock and Sian glanced down to see Violet, with her rag doll tucked firmly under her arm, holding her arms up at them. "Up," she repeated.

"Very well, Violet," Holmes said, picking her up.

"Is Daddy not allowed to hold Mommy at all?" Sian asked her daughter. Violet grimly shook her head. "Such a Daddy's girl," Sian said with a sigh.

"Weren't you, though, Sian?" Holmes asked. Sian laughed.

"Yes, I suppose I was. What makes you say so?"

"The fact that we gave Violet your father's name as a middle name, as opposed to your mother's." Sian stole a guilty glance at little Violet Ernestine, who was never considered to be Violet Elisabeth, in her father's arms.

"You're too smart for me, Sherlock."

"I certainly do my best," he said jovially, kissing his wife on the cheek.

In her father's arms, it was easy to see which side of the family that Violet favored in appearance. She had her father's ebony hair and misty gray eyes. Sian smiled at the sweet tableau of father and daughter. Truly, Violet looked like a small copy of her grandmother, the first Violet Holmes.

Suddenly, in crawled Jack, munching on a cookie.

"There's Jack!" Holmes greeted his son. Sian scooped him up in her arms.

"Have we been neglecting you, Jack-Jack?" she asked him.

"Yes," Jack said simply, as if he had understood the question.

Jack, so named after his "uncle," John Watson, had the features both from the Holmeses and the Fairfaxes. He had the deep brown eyes of the Fairfaxes, and the brown hair of both Grandfather Ernest and Grandfather Siger.

"Can you believe that these two will be one in February?" Sian asked, kissing her son on top of the head.

"It's hard to believe," Holmes agreed.

"I can't imagine being any happier," Sian sighed.

But that wasn't true—because if Sian's suspicions proved correct, then she was expecting another child. Sian bit back a smile. She wanted to keep it a secret from her husband—at least until she was one hundred percent positive.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: So far, I only own Sian, Jack, and Violet.

Chapter Two

Of course, settling into the life of nineteenth century England hadn't been the easiest of adjustments for Sian. When she had first arrived, she had a difficult time fitting in. Sian had heard, on more than one occasion, whispers of women behind her, pointing out to another that she was "Sherlock Holmes's new wife… his _American_ wife."

Sian had done her best to ignore it. After all, the only person who really mattered was Holmes, anyway. But, after the dozenth or so uttering of the phrase, just a few weeks into their marriage, Sian finally broke down. It had been after the two attended a violin concerto. Holmes had gone out to the street to hail a hansom cab, and Sian was adjusting her shawl around her shoulders. Just as she was about to find her husband, she heard a hushed voice behind her say, "See that woman there?"

"The one without an escort?" another sneered.

"Yes. Well, apparently, that woman is the new Mrs. Sherlock Holmes."

"You mean the detective?"

"The very same," the first woman confirmed.

"Why, I never knew."

"A suspicious kind of a marriage… it wasn't even properly advertised. But what else would you suspect from a woman of her breeding?"

"What do you mean?" the second woman wanted to know.

"I mean that this woman is an _American_."

"No!"

"Yes! Apparently, English women weren't good enough for Mr. Holmes."

It had taken everything Sian had within her not to turn around and scream at those awful women, or at the very least not to burst out into tears. Biting her lip, Sian stalked out of the theatre with as much pride and dignity as she could muster. She could practically feel the eyes of those harpies, boring into her back as she walked out the door.

"Anything wrong, my love?" Holmes asked as he helped her into the carriage. Sian sighed. The worst part of being married to the greatest detective was that he could spot all of Sian's emotions, not matter how hard she tried to hide them.

"Nothing, dear," Sian mumbled.

They rode the entire way home in silence, with Sian burying her face in Holmes's shoulder. Back at Baker Street, Holmes silently helped Sian out of her shawl.

"Sherlock…?" Sian asked. He looked at her.

"Yes, Sian?"

"Is it terribly unusual for an Englishman to marry an American woman?"

_So that was it_, Holmes thought. "Of course not!" he exclaimed. "I'm sure that plenty do."

"Can you name any?"

"Well, there's always me," Holmes started, ticking off a finger. Sian smiled, despite herself, and playfully swatted Holmes on the arm.

"Hey!"

"Besides you," Sian instructed. Holmes dropped into his armchair, considering. He chewed his lip.

"Well, just because I'm not acquainted with any doesn't mean it doesn't happen," he said primly.

"I thought so," Sian said distantly.

"Why?" Holmes asked, tugging Sian down onto the arm of the chair. He pulled her into his lap. "Has someone been saying something?"

"Not really," Sian said weakly. It was hard to sound nonchalant when Holmes was stroking her knee.

Holmes looked into her eyes. "I can tell that you're lying, Sian," he told her.

"No, I'm not…."

"Sian!"

"Fine. Yes, I have heard people talking about it."

_"Who?"_ Holmes demanded, with such fervor that Sian was half-afraid that he'd go out into the night and physically harm those two women who had been talking back at the theatre.

"No one we know," Sian assured him, laying a hand against his chest.

"Hmmph," Holmes sniffed.

"It doesn't matter," Sian said. "I just need to accept that I'll never be a perfect fit in this time and place. I tried before—way back when I was with your mother—to speak with a British accent and act properly. It's just… I can't."

"Good," Holmes said decidedly.

"Good?"

"Yes—good. I don't want you to."

"Really?" Sian was bewildered.

"Yes. I didn't fall in love with a quiet, proper, British, belle-of-the-ball sort-of lady. I fell in love with an independent-minded, intelligent, stubborn American woman—_you._ I love you just the way you are." Holmes gazed at her. "You say that you're not a perfect fit, but you're wrong. You're _my _perfect fit."

Sian gasped at the beauty of his words.

"Do you really mean that?" she asked.

"I do," he said. "With all of my heart."

"Oh, Sherlock." Sian kissed him deeply. "That was beautiful," she sighed. Holmes smiled.

"I know," he said, mock-grimly. "I've been spending too much time with a certain literature teacher. It's making me too blasted poetic." Sian laughed.

"Don't listen to what those other women say," Holmes advised, serious again. "You're worth twenty of them, anyway."

"I thank you for that," Sian murmured.

"It's true," Holmes said, tweaking one of her golden locks. "They're just jealous of you."

"Jealous of me?" Sian asked playfully. "Why's that? Because I snagged the handsome eligible detective?"

"No; they're jealous because they're not nearly as witty, clever, and beautiful as you are." Holmes paused, and grinned rakishly. "Although, if you'd like to believe what you said, then by all means, please do so."

Sian laughed and pressed a kiss on the side of his nose. "If nothing else," she said with a grin, "I know that I'm right, at least."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: (points at penname) Psyche0610 ≠ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. 'Nuff said.

Note: I really hope I'm not boring you with these intro chapters... I just want you to have a taste of what Sian's life has been like during the past two years. Not especially interesting, but necessary. The real mystery will appear in the next chapter.

Chapter Three

It was around that time that Sian decided it was high-time that she made good on her promise to Siger.

"Sherlock," Sian said one night after dinner. "Did you ever write to your father?" Holmes, who had been playing the violin, stopped, and glanced at his wife.

"Write to him? When?" he asked, lowering the bow. Sian gave him an incredulous look.

"When?" she repeated. "Since we've been married, of course!"

"Oh." Holmes shrugged. "No, I don't believe I have."

"You're incredible!" Sian said. Holmes shrugged a shoulder, and turned towards the bay window. "Oh, look," he said. "There goes Cartwright." Sian rolled her eyes.

"You're not as sneaky as you think," she said. "I can totally tell that you're trying to change the subject." She abandoned her book and went to stand by his side. She leaned into his chest. "Why don't you speak to your father?" she asked.

"What makes you say that I don't speak to my father?"

"It doesn't take a genius at deduction to solve that riddle, Sherlock," Sian said lightly. Holmes chuckled. "So tell me why," Sian said, looking up at him.

"I suppose that we haven't really been on the best of terms for years now," Holmes said, still looking out of the window. "I went to school at Cambridge, just as several generations of Holmeses have before me. The only difference was, I wanted to do something with my education, not just simply have it as a status symbol." Sian nodded. "I also was not content to stay in Yorkshire for the rest of my life. What I wanted to do was live in London."

"And your father disagreed with that?"

"Precisely," Holmes said with a nod of his head. "I remember the night I told my father that I wanted to leave home. He was furious, to say the least."

"What did your brothers do?"

"Sherrinford, though he didn't openly say so, favored my father. Mycroft, however, was completely on my side. He said he didn't see the sense for the second and third sons to simply rot away in Yorkshire for the rest of their days without any profit. So the next day, we both left. I haven't been to Yorkshire since."

"Oh, Sherlock."

"Not what you were expecting?"

"I don't know. I'm still surprised you don't talk to your father at all. He was such a nice man."

"He's domineering and controlling," Holmes argued.

"He loves you," Sian countered. Holmes, who had been ready to fire back, couldn't respond to that one. "It probably just hurt him that his sons wanted to grow up and leave home. He's of an older generation, and although he seems controlling, I think that it's just out of love for his family."

"Hmmph."

"Sherlock. I promised your father that I'd return to Holmes Manor one day. I think it really hurt him that _I _left, and I had only known him for a fortnight. I just really want to explain everything to him and Sherrinford."

Holmes was feeling his resolve start to wear down.

"Please?" she asked. "It would mean a lot to me."

"Very well," Holmes said. "I suppose I need to reconcile with him eventually."

"Thank you," Sian said, kissing his cheek. Despite himself, Holmes smiled.

"Do you want to write the letter, or shall I?" Sian asked.

"I think I should do it. A letter from the estranged son Sherlock would be far more expected than one from the enigmatic aunt Sian." Sian stuck her tongue out at him.

---

At Holmes Manor, Siger glanced at the letter in his hand. It had been folded and unfolded countless times, and this overuse had worn the edges smooth and faded the ink.

Sherrinford watched as his father fiddled with the letter in his hands. He didn't ask who the letter was from—he didn't have to. He had been carrying around the same letter for days now. Sherrinford permitted himself a smile. Well, why not? The letter had contained some excellent news; his brothers were coming home.

Not permanently, mind you, Sherlock had warned in the letter—just for a holiday. He said that he thought that it was time for them to reconcile, and anyways, he had some very important news to share with them.

Sherrinford supposed that the news pertained to his job as a detective. Sherlock probably just assumed that his father and eldest brother were ignorant of his great success as a detective, but no—the stories of Sherlock Holmes had traveled beyond London, and even to Yorkshire.

Sherrinford paced over to the window. Through the slats of the blinds, he could see a carriage riding up the driveway. He parted the blinds wider. It was a hired travel coach, no doubt from London.

"Father," Sherrinford said. "They're here."

---

Mycroft and Sherlock were both looking out the window, eagerly taking in the sights of their boyhood home. Sian, too, had been admiring the view of Holmes Manor and its surrounding estate, but truly, it was much more amusing to watch to two grown men trying to look nonchalant about their obvious excitement.

It _was_ exciting, though. Out of Sherlock's window, Sian watched fervently as Holmes Manor grew larger and larger. Suddenly, the carriage halted. Mycroft moved to look out the window, his bulky frame blocking the view.

"They're coming out to greet us," Mycroft announced. Sian could hear the smile in his voice. She was happy to see that her husband and brother-in-law were going to make amends with their family, and what's more, that they seemed happy and willing to do so.

Mycroft unceremoniously threw open the door and bounded out the carriage.

"Sherrinford! Father!"

"Mycroft!"

In the carriage, Sian nervously bit her lip. In her hand, she winded her gloves that she always seemed to carry, but never remembered to actually wear. Holmes laid his hand atop of hers.

"Ready, my dear?" he asked her. Sian shrugged, noncommittally, her eyes on her lap. Holmes chuckled in his throat. "Don't be nervous, Sian," he told her, lifting her chin so that her eyes would meet his. "They'll love you. They already do."

A smile tugged on Sian's lips. "I know," she said. "I just dread having to explain everything."

"It is an exhausting story," Holmes agreed. Sian glanced over his shoulder. She could see Siger and Sherrinford looking expectantly at the carriage, waiting for their youngest son and brother.

"They're waiting for you," she told him.

"Well, then, we'll go out and see them now, shall we?"

---

Siger and Sherrinford watched as Sherlock climbed out of the carriage. But, unlike Mycroft, who had bounded right over, Sherlock stayed where he was by the carriage. Siger wondered distantly if this entire visit had been Mycroft's idea, and if Sherlock was still angry. But no, that couldn't be it; even though he was standing at bay, he looked extraordinarily happy, happier than Siger ever remembered seeing his youngest son.

Even after thirty-one years, it still made Siger's heart clench a bit to look upon his youngest son. He looked so much like Violet… aside from inheriting the Holmes nose, Sherlock looked all Sherrinford with his gray eyes and black hair. So much like Violet….

Siger took a few steps forward. "Hullo, Sherlock," he ventured. Sherlock took him by surprise by grinning.

"Hello, Father," he said. Siger noticed that Sherlock's arm was held awkwardly in the carriage still.

"Is someone in there?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yes." Siger glanced behind at his eldest sons. While Mycroft had a knowing look on his face, Sherrinford shared his father's puzzled expression.

"Is it Dr. Watson?" Sherrinford guessed, naming the man whom he knew to be Sherlock's partner. Sherlock's happy expression was marred only for a second by confusion before the grin reappeared.

"No, it is not Dr. Watson," he said. "It's my wife."

"Wife?"

Sherlock helped a woman out of the carriage. She was looking at her footing when climbing out, so the only definitive feature Siger and Sherrinford could make out was her blonde hair. But when she glanced up at their faces, all the mystery of her identity was swept away in an instant.

_"Sian?"_ Siger and Sherrinford gasped in unison. Sian blushed.

"It—it can't possibly be—" Sherrinford looked from Sherlock to Sian, and then over at Mycroft. Mycroft simply shrugged helplessly and nodded. Siger, however, couldn't tear his gaze away from Sian. He wondered if his sanity had slipped in his old age, but no; there was no denying that this lovely young woman, standing beside his youngest son, was the same woman who had claimed to be Violet's cousin over thirty-one years ago when that same youngest son had been born.

"Um." Siger was speechless.

"Why don't we ring for some tea?" Sian suggested. "And then Sherlock and I can explain our story from there."

---

"It's strange," Sherlock said later that night. He and Sian were lying together on the bed in his former bedroom. Sian glanced up from his bare chest, which had up until that point been an ideal pillow.

"What's strange?" Sian asked, resting her hand against his chest. She loved the way he reacted to her touch, even after months of marriage, as if just the feel of her hand gave him uncontrollable shivers.

Sherlock simply shrugged a shoulder as an answer. "Nothing, especially. It's just strange to be in this room after all these years."

"Hmm," Sian mused. "I thought it was stranger to see your brother and father. They've both gotten so much older."

"You didn't think that they'd still be nine and thirty-three, did you?" Sherlock teased, tousling her blonde hair. Sian shook her hair at him.

"No. I knew that they would have aged since 1854, but it was just strange to see, since I saw them last only in January." Sherlock answered by nodding his head and winding his fingers into her hair. She mock-glared at her husband.

"Are you trying to tease me?" she asked. He grinned.

"Possibly."

"Hmm. Well, I'm just happy that they believed us right away," Sian continued, ignoring him.

"Yes. They were much easier to persuade of the notion of time travel than someone else I could mention," Sherlock said dryly. Sian swatted him on the shoulder.

"Hey," he protested weakly.

"Think about it," Sian instructed. "You were trying to convince me that you were Sherlock Holmes, a famous and important figure whom I had always believed to be fictional. No wonder I didn't believe you. We, on the other hand, had to convince your family that I was Sian Fairfax, a woman they had already met and had known thirty-one years prior. And who on earth would try to pretend to be Sian Fairfax? I _had_ to be her—um, _me_."

"You thought I was pretending?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought you were some crazy guy who had read a little too much Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for his own good."

Sherlock melodramatically clutched his heart. "You do me an injury," he said. Sian rolled her eyes.

"Don't make me further question your sanity," Sian warned teasingly.

"Look who's teasing whom now."

"Oh dear. Whatever shall we do about that?" Sherlock kissed her forehead. Sian shivered.

"I know."


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: not mine, but it was fairly exciting to borrow another one of Doyle's original characters, Inspector Lestrade.

And a note to Kay2010SU… this is the chapter in which I introduce the mysterious killer, who is on the loose in London, and it is up to Sherlock Holmes to catch him…. lol. Well, at least that's the truth! And Elaine61, I'm sorry I stopped where I did last chapter. Sadly, I don't think I'll ever write an SSSS… wow, what a word… PMSS is much catchier….

Chapter Four

Back at Baker Street in 1887, Sian was sitting in the parlor and mending clothes. As she was sewing a patch on the knee of Jack's little trousers, she longed for the day when he'd master the art of walking. Energetic boy that he was, he'd wear the knees of his trousers when he'd furiously crawl around the house.

_Not too much longer,_ Sian decided, tearing the thread with her teeth. She heard the sounds of hands and knees shuffling along the hardwood floor in the next room. Sian bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud, but she couldn't suppress her smile. Sherlock must be playing with the babies.

For a man who had always seemed to be such a stoic, Sherlock had proven to be a good father. Sian remembered the day that Jack and Violet were born—Sherlock had been very nervous around them, as if just his touch might break them. He had even declined to hold them soon after their birth.

"They're so tiny and fragile," he had protested when Sian offered little Violet to him. "What if I hurt them?"

Sian rolled her eyes. "They're a lot tougher than you give them credit for," she informed him. "Seriously. Just think of what they just went through."

He had to admit that she had a point there.

So he perched on the edge of the bed and carefully took Violet in his arms.

"There you go," she said. "Just support her head—that's right."

"Am I doing it right?" he asked nervously.

"Yes," Sian assured him, taking Jack into her own arms. "Sherlock," she said. "Put your finger in her palm." He silently obeyed, and Sian was rewarded with the look of pure delight that crossed Sherlock's face when Violet instantly grasped his finger in her tiny fist.

Sian smiled again at the memory. It was hard to believe in less than a year, Jack and Violet had gone from tiny infants to rowdy tots, and Sherlock had gone from timid father to ideal dad. Or over-sized playfellow. It was a relief that he enjoyed playing with his children—Sian had almost been worried, after remembering his tentativeness with Paris and London, back in 2006….

Sian started. Paris and London… how old would they be by now? Six and four? Goodness, that meant that Paris was in first grade now, with London just months away from school herself. Sian had been thinking about her nieces a lot lately… well, maybe more than just a lot. And definitely more than just her nieces. She wondered if Chelsea and Dennis had had another baby, like Chelse had wanted, and if they were even still married. She wondered if her mother had found another boyfriend, and if her father had gotten that promotion he had been talking about, and if Megan had ever found a man that made her happy. She wondered if they missed her, if they thought her dead.

Sian dropped her stitching in her lap.

What was _wrong _with her? True, she had thought about her friends and family from her past life a lot since she had left, but never enough to, well, _plague_ her like this!

_Consider!_ she commanded herself. Yes, maybe she lost Paris and London, but she had gained Jack and Violet, plus the new baby on the way. She had lost her parents, but she gained a loving father-in-law in Siger. She had lost her sister, but gained two wonderful brothers in Sherrinford and Mycroft. She had lost Megan, but Dr. Watson made an excellent friend, not to mention the other ladies who lived on Baker Street. And most importantly, she gained a tender husband. Sherlock was the love of her life, the half that made her whole, her best friend, her husband, her soulmate.

Sian shook the feelings of doubt away. She was fine. Maybe just a little homesick, but nothing more. Yes, perfectly fine.

A rapping on the door interrupted Sian's treacherous thoughts. Mrs. Hudson was out at the market, and Sian, happy for the distraction, leapt from her seat to answer the door.

"Hello?" she asked, opening the door a crack. It was Inspector Lestrade from the Scotland Yard. "Oh, Mr. Lestrade," Sian said, throwing the door open all the way.

Sian was not Lestrade's biggest fan—he was definitely the stereotypical chauvinistic Victorian male ass. While he was always trying to "protect her sensitive ears" by refraining to speak of crime and murder and such in her presence, Sian usually amused herself by playing the part of an exaggeratedly simple lady, just one swoon away from the vapors. But honestly—if Sian wasn't able to handle discussing crime, then why on earth would she have married a detective?

"Hello, Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade said cordially. "Is your husband at home?"

Behind them, they heard more loud shuffling, followed by the delighted screams of children. Sian turned around to the source of the racket, and Lestrade peered over her shoulder, and through the doorway to the next room, they could see Jack and Violet violently crawling away, with Sherlock chasing after them. Sian turned back towards Lestrade, who was looking as if he was questioning whether or not he had just imagined seeing the greatest detective in London chasing after his children on the floor as if he was no more than a child himself. He also looked as if he was rather doubting that it was a hallucination at all.

"Yes," Sian said primly, stating the obvious. "My husband is home."

"If you could be so good as to, ah, collect him, I have something most urgent to discuss with him."

"Of course," Sian said sweetly. "Won't you please come in while I, uh, _collect _him?"

"Thank you," Lestrade said, making himself at home as he assumed the chair opposite of Sherlock's usual armchair. Sian flounced over to the doorway, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?" she called. "Could you please come down here?"

"Of course, my love," he called back. "Just a minute."

Sian returned to the parlor. "He will be right with you," she told Lestrade, perching on the arm of the sofa. Just that moment, Sherlock Holmes walked into the room, holding a giggling and squirming child under each arm.

"Ah, Lestrade," he greeted, seemingly unphased that the chief of police had caught him playing with his babies.

"Holmes—I have some rather pressing matters to discuss with you," Lestrade said, cutting straight to the matter.

"Well, by all means, press on," Holmes invited, passing Jack to his wife. He settled into his armchair with his daughter in her lap. Violet sat like a small queen on her father's knee.

"Well, actually, it might be better if we were, ah, _alone_," Lestrade said. He glanced at Sian. "It's rather grisly stuff, Madam," he told her.

"I see," Sian said, nodding her head understandingly. "Too much for a weak female like me? I understand." She stood up and, with Jack on her hip, she scooped Violet out of her husband's lap. "I'll be in the kitchen," she said. "The children probably want a snack, anyway." With that, she dramatically left the room. Holmes was trying his best not to smile at his wife.

"Was she being sarcastic?" Lestrade wondered aloud.

"Oh, she's as meek and mild a woman as they come," Holmes said, trying to stop looking amused.

"Mrs. Holmes is a very interesting woman," Lestrade granted. Holmes doubted it was a compliment.

"Listen—you banished my wife from her own parlor so that we could speak privately," he said. "I'd advise that you do so."

"Very well. Holmes, have you heard about the killing spree that's been going on of late?" Holmes rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.

"I have," he said. "But you can undoubtedly tell me more than the _London Times_ can. Do enlighten me."

"For the past few weeks, we've been finding men, dead, around London. The death toll as of now is four."

"Where were these men found?"

"Crumpled in alleys, mostly. One man, though, was killed on the sidewalk just a few paces away from his home."

"And how were they killed?"

"Gunshot to the head, every one of them."

"I see."

"At first, we thought that these were separate, unrelated killings, despite the similarities of death between them."

"And what changed your minds about that?"

"This," Lestrade said, handing an initialed scrap of fabric to Holmes. He glanced at it.

"Its monogram says SH. I take that to mean Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

"We believe so."

"Probably an invitation for me to investigate this case," Holmes murmured, studying the handkerchief intently. "And this was found on which of the men?"

"All of them.

"All of them?" Holmes repeated. "And you waited until the fourth man before you came to me?"

"We thought that we could handle it." Holmes shook his head.

"Arrogance is a terrible thing, Inspector," he chastised. Lestrade moved to speak, but Holmes silenced him with a wave of his hand. "This handkerchief is very nicely made. The thread is very fine and the stitching neat. This was purchased by a man of no mean income." Holmes stroked the fine linen. "Purchased from Woolsey's, unless I've missed my guess." He inspected the initials. "The S and H were scrawled on the handkerchief with a common ink pen. A personal pen, no doubt. Impossible to track the pen. The handkerchief, on the other hand, might prove to be a fine lead." He handed it back to Lestrade.

"So, if you've found this same clue on all of the victims, what finally prompted you to ask for my assistance?" Lestrade looked embarrassed.

"Well, the fourth man's been found today."

"Today?"

"Yes. I was hoping you could come and take a look."

"Very well," Holmes said, rising from his seat. "Let me tell Sian and I'll be right with you. Sian?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked, walking back into the parlor. She glanced at Lestrade. "I do hope you two men have stopped talking about blood and gore and such," she said innocently. "It might be more than a feeble woman like myself to bear."

"Of course we are done, dear Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade said kindly, bearing in mind that she was a "meek and mild" sort of woman. "I would not have allowed your husband to call for you unless we were through talking about those horrid sorts of things."

Holmes at that moment fell prey to a sudden coughing fit.

"Don't choke," Sian said, looking amused at Sherlock. "Need me to whack you on the back?" This caused the coughs to continue.

"No, no, Sian. I'm fine, I'm sure."

"Of course," she smiled.

"I just wanted to tell you that I need to go out with Lestrade for a bit to take a look at a corpse." Sian's eyebrows shot up.

"Ooh. Fun."

"Oh yes. Quite." He reached for his coat from the rack. "I'll be back in time for supper," he promised, throwing it on. Sian wrapped his scarf around his neck and, standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him.

"Be careful," she told him.

"I will," he promised.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own the original characters and this particular plot. All else is borrowed from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter Five

"It's a terrible thing," Lestrade noted as the two men were leaving Baker Street.

"What is?" Holmes asked.

"When a man is too much in love with his wife. It gets him much too distracted."

"Ah," Holmes said, trying not to roll his eyes. "And how is Mrs. Lestrade?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Well, I suppose."

"Hmm."

"It isn't important how she is; what's important is that she doesn't distract me. How long have you and Mrs. Holmes been married?"

"Two years."

"More than enough time to be out of the honeymoon stage," Lestrade decided.

"And what if I enjoy being in the honeymoon stage?" Holmes wanted to know.

"Well, of course that stage does have its pleasures—not to intrude or anything," he rushed to add, after seeing the look on Holmes's face, "—but two years is more than enough time for all that silly lovey-doveyness to have washed away. Annoying infatuation."

"I see. But therein lays the problem, as I'm in love my wife, not infatuated with her."

"Well, there's the problem! You're not supposed to marry for love—marriage is nothing more than a business contract. I needed a wife to keep house and produce children for me, and Mrs. Lestrade needed a home and a husband to provide for her—a perfect match. We don't let silly romance get in _our_ way."

"Sounds like the ideal marriage," Holmes said dryly. Before Lestrade could chastise him even further on his misfortune to actually be in love with his wife, Holmes asked, "So, what can you tell me about the murdered men?"

Lestrade was in his element now—perhaps he couldn't talk about loving his wife, but by God, he sure as hell could talk about murder.

"The first man was found a few weeks ago," Lestrade began. "A Ralph Fitzgerald, cab driver and common drunkard. He was found shot dead in an alley outside of a tavern out in London's east end. We did a basic investigation, but after learning the man's identity, and learning of all of his immense gambling debts, we assumed that it was nothing more than a suicide, and so he was buried and the case was closed."

"What did you make of the SH handkerchief ?" Holmes wanted to know.

"Fitzgerald's wasn't the most thorough of investigations," Lestrade admitted. "We never came across it until we reexamined everything at a later date."

"Ah."

"The next man we found was a wealthy merchant named Samuel Haversham."

" 'SH.' You assumed the handkerchief was his," Holmes guessed.

"Yes. Pure dumb luck that the man had the same initials as yours. Anyway, we knew that Haversham hadn't committed suicide, since the bullet hole was at an impossible angle for a man to do himself. We thought that perhaps a rival merchant had ordered his murder.

"The third man was Felix Westby, a tailor. He was found in the middle of the street—it was assumed that he was making his way home after work. It was then that we really took notice of the SH handkerchief, since it was known that this man's initials were FW. We racked our brains together to think of anyone we knew whose initials were SH. You, of course, were the first we thought of."

"Flattered, I'm sure," Holmes muttered.

"Anyway, we realized that it must be some sort of sign that he wanted you to work on the investigation."

"And you didn't seek my help then because…?"

Lestrade shrugged. "As I said, we thought we could handle it."

"Until the fourth man was found."

"Until the fourth man was found," Lestrade confirmed.

"I see."

"Right up there," Lestrade said, gesturing at an alley surrounded by some bobbies.

When the men saw their chief approaching with the famed detective Sherlock Holmes himself, they immediately parted like the Red Sea.

Holmes did a rough overview of the man. He was a tall man, perhaps 6'2" or 6'4", a little gangly looking, with dark hair, stained that ugly reddish-brown of dried blood. The man's head was lying in the middle of a large pool of his own blood. Holmes then noticed the man's fine clothes and expensive-looking walking cane.

"You waited until a wealthy man was murdered before you got me," Holmes said angrily. "He is a noble, I perceive."

"This is Lord Tobias Hastings," Lestrade said, almost apologetically. "But we would have gotten you no matter what this man's station in life was."

That phrase, "stations in life," made Holmes think.

"This makes no sense," he said, looking down at the man's body. "All of these men are from different social classes."

"Yes," Lestrade agreed.

"Generally as a rule, murderers kill people with a common trait. Social class, for example, or location or trade. These four men have nothing in common beyond their gender." Holmes bit his lip. "I need to think."

Lestrade rolled and lit a cigarette.

"Forget your pipe?" he asked Holmes, who usually smoked while thinking.

"I don't smoke it anymore," he said dismissively.

"What? Since when?"

"It's not the healthiest of habits," he said. "And especially not with two small babies around."

"How on earth did a woman like Mrs. Holmes get you so domesticated?" Lestrade wondered aloud.

"Enough about my wife," Holmes growled. "Let's concentrate on this case, dammit."

After a quarter of an hour later, Holmes gave the men permission to have the body removed and prepared for burial.

"Have the files for all the victims send to Baker Street," Holmes instructed before he left. Lestrade nodded. "Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be going."

Sian was waiting in the parlor when her husband got home.

"Hi, Sherlock," she said as he was taking off his coat.

"Hello."

"How did the body look?" she asked.

"Quite dead, actually," he said absently.

"Truly?" Sian asked, sounding amazed. "No kidding, Sherlock." Sherlock managed to roll his eyes. She took him by both hands and led him to sofa.

"I'm not sure if I should mention it," Holmes said uneasily.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock—you're acting like Lestrade. Remember all those crime shows I used to watch?"

He remembered.

So, with great detail, Holmes described everything about the case while pacing up and down the length of the parlor. Sian sat, with her head tilted, absorbing every detail.

"So what do you think?" he asked. Sian shrugged.

"Beats me," she said. "It sounds really random, as far as the victims go." Holmes nodded.

"That's what perplexes me so much."

"What's was the last man's name?"

"Lord Tobias Hastings."

"Tobias…." Sian repeated. She started as the name brought back a flood of memories.

"Someone you know?" Holmes asked. Sian glanced up.

"Oh. Um, no. Not at all." She shook her head firmly.

"You seemed to recognize the name," he pointed out.

"Oh, well, I had a bit of an English teacher moment." She forced a laugh. "It's just that Tobias was the name of the father and grandfather in the book _Heidi_. That was one of Megan's favorite books, you see. Just a random memory, is all."

"Ah," Holmes said.

"I wonder how Megan is right now?" Sian mused, finally voicing one of her previous thoughts aloud.

Holmes shrugged. "Very well, I'm sure," he said. "No doubt hosting some sort of costume party at that library."

Sian tried to laugh, but it came out sounding like a sob.

"Sian," Holmes said, rushing to her side. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

Sian nodded. Holmes narrowed his brows at her.

"I'm fine," she said, trying to look fine under her husband's scrutiny. He frowned.

"Are you _sure_?"

"Quite." Sian hopped up. "I'll just go along and help Mrs. Hudson with the dinner."

Holmes watched as his wife retreated to the kitchen. He glanced down at the floor, where Jack and Violet were quietly playing with their toys.

"I wonder what's gotten into Mummy," he said, addressing the question to his children, but asking it for himself. "She's been acting strange like this lately," he continued, "but she won't tell me what's wrong." He looked at his children again. "What do you think I should do?" he asked. They cooed in response. He smiled, but it was only half-hearted.

Holmes looked up, and through the doorway he could see his wife trying to look chipper as she was setting the table. He sighed.

"I have no idea, either."


	6. Chapter 6

My own story is starting to break my heart.

Disclaimer: Psyche0610 ≠ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter Six

Dinner that night was a quiet affair. Holmes kept sneaking glances at Sian as she was quietly feeding Violet. Holmes racked his brain, trying to think of something that would lift Sian's spirits. He suddenly remembered something he had seen in _the_ _London Times_ that morning at breakfast.

"Sian," Holmes said carefully. "When's the last time you saw Paris?" Sian dropped her fork and glanced up at him.

"What?" she asked, startled.

"When's the last time you saw Paris?"

"The last time I saw Paris?" she repeated. "That was in November two years ago." Holmes shook his head.

"It couldn't possibly have been November two years ago," he pointed out. "_I_ was around in November two years ago."

"I know," Sian said. "You met both of my nieces that day."

"Your nieces?" Holmes shook his head slightly. "Oh, no. Dear, I was talking about Paris the_ city_."

"Oh," Sian said quietly. "Yes. Yes, of course." She bit her lip. "Well, the only time I went to Paris was after I graduated from college. That was back in 2005, when I was twenty-one. Why?"

"It's just that in the newspaper this morning, I read an article about how they're starting to build that tower in Paris." Holmes smiled. "I was just wondering if you might be interested in going to Paris soon. Perhaps as on a holiday?"

Sian shrugged a shoulder. "Sure. I guess so." Holmes did notice her lack of enthusiasm.

"Well," he said, trying to cheer her up, "at least I never need to ask you when was the last time you saw London." He cringed when Sian frowned. Maybe that wasn't the most tactful attempted joke at the moment.

"No, I suppose not," Sian said practically, "considering that we live in London."

Holmes didn't try again that dinner to try to cheer her up.

That night, after they had put the babies to bed and were retiring for the night as well, Holmes and Sian laid in bed, perfectly parallel to each other. Sian was on her side, staring blankly at the door, and Holmes was staring at the back of her head. He wanted nothing more than for everything to be right between them.

_Damn it!_ he thought. _Why don't I understand what's wrong with her?_ Why, he was Sherlock Holmes! He was the greatest detective in London! And, despite all that, he was still unable to figure out what was wrong with his wife. Women, and certainly wives, were infinitely more confusing to Holmes than criminals.

At that moment, Holmes would have traded anything in the world to be able to hold her in his arms; to embrace her, to kiss her, to make love to her, even just to whisper "I love you" in her ear.

_This is ridiculous!_ Holmes thought. _If I want to tell my wife I love her, then I will, dammit._ As Holmes was mustering the courage to speak, he looked again and saw Sian, still stiffly lying on the edge of the bed, and the words died on his lips. Instead, he sighed, and reached out to douse the light.

"Good-night, Sian," Holmes said. A sorry excuse for what he really wanted to say.

"Good-night, Sherlock."

When the darkness had completely enveloped the room and when he was certain that he heard the steady breathing of his sleeping wife, only then did Holmes feel safe to put his emotions into words.

"I love you, Sian," he whispered, just before he succumbed to slumber.

Whether or not he dreamed it, Holmes would never know, but he thought that he heard the words "I love you too, Sherlock" murmured into the darkness.

---

By the time Sian awoke in the morning, Holmes was already gone, which was strange, considering that he was normally the late-riser of the two. Sian shrugged and went off to get the babies.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Hudson," Sian greeted as she placed the children in their highchairs.

"Good-morning, Mrs. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said from her domain in the kitchen. "Breakfast will be ready in a wee bit."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sian said, just as she noticed a note on the table. She picked it up.

_Sian—_

_Just out in town investigating for the case—I needed to get an early start. I should be back before supper._

_—S_

Sian replaced the note on the table. It made her think about last night. Had she just imagined the entire exchange between them, giving endearments when they thought the other was sleeping? What a sad state for a married couple to be in.

Sian frowned, biting her lip. That's how her parents had been before they got divorced… _no! no!_ Sian shook her head, trying to shake away the treacherous thoughts. No, they were perfectly happy. She would not divorce Sherlock. They were _fine_.

_So fine that we can hardly speak to each other anymore…._

_Stop it!_ Sian instructed herself. No. Fine. Perfectly fine.

Yes. Quite.

"What I just need to do is to distract myself," Sian said to herself.

"Did you say something, Mrs. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she carried the food over to the table.

"Um. No. But Mrs. Hudson," Sian said. "I think that I'm going to go calling today. I'll take Jack and Violet with me."

"Very good, Mrs. Holmes. I'll just go and fetch the perambulator for you, then."

---

Sian and Jack and Violet soon found themselves at the Pall Mall standing in front of the Diogenes Club. Sian stared at the building.

"There's no way they'll let me in," Sian mused, clicking her tongue, "not even just to fetch Mycroft." She looked around and saw a boy banging sticks along the streetlamps.

"Excuse me, young man," Sian said. The boy looked guiltily up at Sian.

"Sure am sorry mum, I am," he began, but Sian silenced him with the wave of her hand.

"No, not that," she said. "I have a favor to ask you. Would you be so good as to deliver a note into this Gentlemen's Club for me?"

"Well—"

"Of course," Sian continued, "there will be a shilling in it for you."

"I'm right happy to help out ma'am, I am," the boy said pleasantly.

"Good." Sian fished a pen and paper from her reticule and quickly scrawled a note to Mycroft. She handed it to the boy. "Take this to the Reading Room in the building," she instructed. "There will be a sign directing to the room, but whatever you do, do not speak aloud. In the Reading Room, there should be a large man with brown hair, gray eyes, and a double chin. He's probably reading _the London Times_, and his name is Mycroft Holmes."

"Yes, ma'am," the boy said, quickly slipping into the building. Sian waited outside the building.

"We're going to get to see Uncle Mycroft," she told her children.

The boy eventually came back outside, but Mycroft was nowhere in sight.

"I'm right sorry, ma'am," he said. "But I couldn't seem to find the chap in question. I looked all around, but he wasn't there."

"Oh," Sian said.

"Does that mean I don't get the shilling, then?"

"Oh, no," Sian said. "You still get the shilling." She accepted the note back and pressed the promised coin into the boy's grubby hand.

"A pleasure doing business with you!" he said, tipping his hat at her as he ran off.

Sian glanced at Jack and Violet.

"I guess we won't be seeing Uncle Mycroft, after all," she said. She considered. "I know. Why don't we go and visit Uncle John." She nodded her head, and went off into the opposite direction, towards Dr. Watson's new residence.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: not mine

Chapter Seven

"Dr. Watson?"

Watson glanced up from his work. He was seated at his desk in the study of his new residence, looking over the files of his patients. Soon after Sian and Holmes were married, Watson decided that he should take up a new residence and start practicing medicine again. Holmes had nobly offered to leave the Baker Street flat for Watson, but Watson refused.

"Everyone associates 221B Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes," Watson had pointed out. "It wouldn't be right for me to stay there and you to leave."

And so Watson moved to another flat just a few blocks away from Baker Street. It was too far in that Holmes and Sian didn't get to see Watson every day, but close enough that they were able to stop by and visit often enough.

"Yes, Betsy?" Watson asked his maid.

"Dr. Watson, you have a visitor."

"A visitor?"

"Yes. It's Mrs. Holmes. I've already shown her to the parlor."

"Very good, Betsy. Now could you be so good as to prepare some tea for us?" Betsy bobbed a curtsey and went off. Watson quickly scrawled one last note and went off to the parlor to greet Mrs. Holmes.

Sian stood up when she saw Watson enter the room.

"Dr. Watson!" she cried.

"Mrs. Holmes," he greeted. He noticed the children in her arms. "And you brought Jack and Violet with you!" Sian smiled and handed Watson his namesake. Watson was very fond of the children.

"These two just keep growing each time I see them!" he exclaimed. "Jack is going to be a big strong boy one day. And Violet! She's the spitting image of Sherlock."

"That she is," Sian agreed softly, stroking down Violet's inky black curls.

"Speaking of, where is Sherlock?" Watson wondered, sitting down on the sofa.

"He's off investigating a murder case," Sian said, assuming her seat. "So I thought I'd come for a visit."

Watson, of course, noticed straightaway that the usually vibrant Mrs. Holmes was rather soft-spoken this morning. Well, longer than just this morning, now that Watson thought about it. In fact, he'd go as far as to say that she'd seemed rather unhappy for weeks now.

Just as Watson was going to open his mouth to question her, in bustled Betsy, tray of tea and crumpets in hand.

"Oh, tea," Sian observed. "Lovely."

Watson waited until Betsy served the tea and was safely out of the room before he spoke.

"Are you feeling very much like yourself, Mrs. Holmes?" Watson asked. Sian, startled, glanced up from her tea.

"Of course I am, Dr. Watson," she said weakly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason in particular," Watson said carefully. "It's just that lately, you've seemed rather low." Sian bit her lip and looked at her feet. "Please, Mrs. Holmes. I want you to feel that you can confide in me." She tentatively met his eyes. "If you like, I can promise that this will be kept between us," Watson assured. "As friends."

"Well," Sian started slowly. "It's just that lately, I've been thinking of home."

"You mean Baker Street?" Watson asked.

"No, not that home. I mean my home in the twenty-first century. Well, my family, really."

"Well, there's no harm in that, I'm sure."

"I know. I've just been thinking about it a lot recently. I haven't seen my family for over two years now. And not only that, but they must think I'm dead. I_ am_ dead to them, really, since I'm here in the nineteenth century."

"Are you happy here anymore, Mrs. Holmes?" Watson asked, fervently hoping she'd say yes. He hated to think of what would happen to Holmes if the love of his life was unhappy with him.

"Of course I'm happy," Sian said. "I have everything a woman could ever want—a loving husband, darling children, a nice home. I _am_ happy," Sian repeated. Watson wondered if she was repeating it for his benefit or her own. "It's just… I miss my family. A lot."

"If… if Sherlock was out of the picture… that is, if you weren't in love with him, and didn't have children with him, but at the same time had an opportunity to live in the nineteenth century, would you?"

Sian averted her eyes. She studied her babies on the floor. "That's not a fair question, Dr. Watson," she mumbled.

"Please, Mrs. Holmes. It's important."

"I— I'm not sure," she said hesitantly. "I mean, I love nineteenth century England. It's a lovely time. But while I may be a nineteenth century British woman by marriage, I'll always be a twenty-first century American girl at heart."

"So, that would be a… no?"

"I don't know," Sian said. A single fat tear rolled down the side of her cheek.

"Oh, dear, I didn't mean to make you cry," Watson said, whipping the handkerchief from his front pocket. Sian accepted it gratefully, dabbing the moisture from her eyes.

"Please don't tell Sherlock," Sian begged. "I couldn't bear for him to think I wasn't happy."

"Of course, Mrs. Holmes."

"Don't call me that!" she cried. Watson gave her a startled look.

"You… you don't wish to be Mrs. Holmes?" he asked. Sian clutched her hair.

"No, that's not what I meant!" she cried. "I adore being Mrs. Holmes—I really do. I just miss being called Sian. I miss the informalities of my time—I mean, my old time." Sian bit her thumb. "I just miss my home."

Watson sat silently.

"Dr. Watson, what is wrong with me?"

"Do you still love Sherlock?" he asked.

She nodded. "I do."

"Then I think that that's what you need to remember." Sian nodded. "When it gets right down to it, M—Sian, love is all that really matters. Nothing is more important, my dear, and don't forget it." Sian nodded again.

"D… Dr. Watson," Sian began. "Do… do you miss Mary?" Watson started.

"You know about Mary?" he asked. Sian nodded. "Did Sherlock tell you?"

"No."

"Then how—oh, right. You've read all of those stories, haven't you?"

"Yes."

Watson nodded before he spoke. "I think that what I miss most is more of the idea of Mary, rather than Mary herself," he said slowly. Sian gave Watson a startled glance. "It is difficult to truly miss the person who left you."

"Left you?" Sian cried. "I thought she died!"

Watson smiled humorlessly. "No, she did not."

"I— I— I'm sorry I brought her up," Sian began, but Watson interrupted her.

"Don't be, my dear. I'm afraid that, however grim the lesson may have been, I learned a lot from Mary Morstan.

"Mary and I met when Sherlock was working on a case for her—but you probably know all about that."

Sian nodded. "_The Sign of Four_," she said. Watson smiled.

"Yes, that's what I called it. But, anyway, I was attracted to Mary instantly. She was a beautiful young lady, petite and blonde, and I was instantly smitten. When the whole affair was over, I proposed to her. She accepted, and so we were married. The problem was that we had nothing in common. I had been attracted to her looks, and she was looking for a husband to protect her. But with nothing to keep it together, it wasn't before long that our marriage began to fall apart."

"And then—"

"And then she left me." Watson looked at Sian. "But when I see you and Sherlock together, I don't see me and Mary."

"You don't?" she asked hopefully.

"No. You two… you two are perfect for each other. You have the wit that compliments his logic. Your relationship goes beyond merely the initial attraction, which, I'm sorry to admit, is all that Mary and I had between us. That's why she left when a better offer came around—there was nothing to hold her to me. You and Sherlock have the kind of bond that will withstand the years."

"You really think so?" she asked.

"I do." Sian smiled.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson." The grandfather clock behind them chimed the hour. "Oh, look at the time," she said. "I should be going." She picked Violet up, but Watson picked up Jack as she reached for him.

"Let me accompany you to the perambulator."

As Sian was about to return to Baker Street, Watson held on to her elbow.

"Remember what I said, Sian," he told her seriously. She smiled.

"I will." She hugged Watson. "Thank you."

Watson watched as Sian walked away, pushing the perambulator. When she turned the corner, she stopped and waved. He waved lightly.

He hoped that everything would turn out for the best for Sherlock and Sian.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: not mine

Note: Thanks to MoonlitPuddle for correcting a mistake I made in a previous chapter… I said that Mycroft had brown eyes, when he truly had gray. I have corrected this mistake.

And now, with no further ado, I present to you my heart-monitor of a story, always going up and down. :-\

Chapter Eight

Not long after Sian had left Watson's flat, more rapping was heard from the door. Watson glanced up from his newspaper as Betsy opened the door. She jumped back, startled, as Sherlock Holmes rushed in.

"Oh, my!" she squealed.

"I'm sorry, miss, but is Dr. Watson in?" he asked. He turned towards the parlor. "Never mind, I can see quite clearly that he is. Thank you." He tipped his hat and bounded over to the parlor, leaving a startled Betsy still holding open the door.

"Holmes!" Watson said. He seemed overly-anxious. "Are you looking for Sian?" he asked. Holmes, who had seated himself in the same chair where his wife had sat not an hour ago, glanced up at Watson.

"Sian was here?" he asked anxiously.

"Well, yes," Watson said, wondering if that betrayed the confidentiality he had promised Sian by mentioning her visit.

"How did she seem?" Holmes asked earnestly, leaning forward in his seat.

"Well, you're the one who's married to her." Holmes grimaced.

"I know," he said. "It's just… it's just that it hasn't felt like it, lately…" he trailed off.

"I see," Watson said, biting his lip. "Should I ring for some tea?"

"Do you have anything stronger than tea?" Holmes asked wearily. Watson nodded and headed to his liquor cabinet. Holmes trailed behind.

"I thought everything was fine with us," he continued. "As recently as our anniversary, she seemed fine. But lately… lately she's been troubled, and I can't figure out why."

"You?" Watson asked, handing Holmes a glass. "You, the expert at deduction, can't figure it out?"

Holmes grimaced. "Some great detective," he muttered, downing his liquor. He slammed his glass on the table. "Watson, I may as well admit it—something's probably been wrong for weeks now, and we just didn't want to admit it."

Watson silently refilled Holmes's glass. Holmes sighed. "I just don't know what's wrong, Watson."

"You honestly don't know?"

"No."

"Holmes, I think that solving this riddle is no different than solving one of your cases. If I may quote you, 'You know my methods, now apply them.' "

Holmes made a face which clearly said 'don't be an ass,' but he considered.

"I suppose you're right." He considered again. "She misses her friends and family," he decided. "Lately, she's been making an unusual amount of references to her nieces, parents, sister, friends, et cetera." Holmes paused. "Well, that was rather obvious," he chastised himself. "Why didn't I see that before? I'll tell you why," he answered himself. "It's because I was thinking—hoping—that if I ignored the problem, it would somehow simply go away." He sighed. "What a fine husband I've turned out to be."

"Well, you're new at it," Watson excused.

"I've been married for two years," Holmes pointed out.

"Which is not a great length of time," Watson countered. "Now consider—in a little over two years, you were transported through time, fell in love, were nearly killed by your greatest enemy, got married, and had two children. Those are a lot of life changes in such a short amount of time."

"Hmmph."

"You love Sian?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you here having this conversation with me?" Watson asked. "You need to be home having it with Sian."

"You're right," Holmes said. He grabbed his hat, where he had abandoned it on the sofa. "Thank you, Watson. You're an excellent friend."

"So I'm told," Watson said jovially.

After Holmes had left, Watson shook his head. Why had he bothered pursuing a career in medicine? Obviously, those who knew him best considered him to be some sort of marriage counselor.

Watson chuckled and returned to his newspaper.

---

Sian was replacing a book on the bookshelf when Holmes got home. Not hearing her husband, she frowned at the bookshelf, looking at the books. Holmes quietly crept up behind her.

"Hello, Sian," Holmes greeted, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her on the cheek. Once upon a time, had he done this to Sian, she would have turned around, thrown her arms around his neck, and kissed him deeply. Holmes, though, was afraid that her reaction would be to tense up beneath his touch.

But no—neither of these were her responses. She made a small surprised gasp, tilted her head to glance over her shoulder, met his eyes, and…

…she smiled.

"Hi, Sherlock," Sian said warmly.

He was mesmerized.

"Hi," he said.

She giggled slightly. "You already said that," she pointed out.

"Oh, right." He smiled. Was she acting like herself?

The two sat down on the sofa. It was almost as if it was two years ago, when he was staying in Sian's house after his skirmish with time-travel.

"How was the investigation this morning?" Sian asked. She of course had noticed how Sherlock's eyes had lit up when she smiled at him. She hadn't really realized how much her cool demeanor must have been hurting him. But, now that she had talked to Dr. Watson and got everything off her chest, Sian felt almost renewed.

_It's okay to miss my family back home,_ she decided, _but not so much that it destroys my happiness now._

Sherlock was staring at Sian intently.

"Sherlock?" she asked. He snapped out of his gaze.

"Sian, I don't give a damn about the investigation right now," he said, grabbing her hands. "Is everything alright with you?" Sian turned her gaze down to her lap.

"You noticed?" she asked.

"Noticed that you seemed to be depressed? Of course I noticed!" Sian responded with a weak smile.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You're sorry? I'm sorry!" He tilted her head up to meet his gaze. "You miss your family," he told her.

"Yes."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Yes, there is!" Sian cried, rising to her feet. "I mean, there shouldn't be, _normally_, but it's wrong that I'm missing them so much that I'm missing out on my perfect, happy life here." She spun around. "You know?"

"I understand," he said.

"Thank you," she said, plopping herself down on the sofa. Holmes studied her.

"I have a present for you," he told her. She laughed.

"You got me a present," she repeated as Holmes pulled a brown-papered package from his coat. "Why?"

"Because," he said, handing it to Sian, "I love you."

Sian carefully tugged off the twine before she tore opening the brown paper. When she saw what it was that Sherlock had gotten her, she laughed again. Holmes smiled.

"You got me _Pride and Prejudice_," she said.

"It's your favorite book," he said. "I don't quite understand how you've lived here for two years and I never thought to get you _Pride and Prejudice_." Sian smiled as she stroked the fine leather cover of the beloved book.

"I'm a little surprised that you got it for me," she teased, meeting Sherlock's eyes, "considering how much you disliked the movie." Holmes chuckled.

"I have a lot to thank for that movie," he commented off-handedly, shrugging.

"You do?" Sian asked, raising her eyebrows. Holmes nodded. "I find that very intriguing," she announced. "So tell me what you mean."

"It's slightly embarrassing," he protested weakly. Sian shook her head and drew her legs in, so that she was sitting on her knees on the sofa.

"Don't care," she said. "Spill."

Of course Holmes intended to tell her. He didn't care if the tale was slightly embarrassing; he was just thrilled that Sian seemed to be returning to normal.

"Well," he began. "It all began that night when that vile Paul Livingston took you out on a date."

" 'That vile Paul Livingston'?" Sian quoted with a laugh. "You never even met him."

"I didn't need to," Holmes argued. "But I do know that a viler man never lived."

"Well, I'll give you that. Not everyone can be as perfect as you, Sherlock."

"Thank you." He mocked-glared at her. "Now stop interrupting." Sian held up her hands as a sign of her surrender, and Holmes continued.

"Anyway, I remember that you were in an odd mood that entire evening, so I decided to ignore you. But when you came out of your bedroom, all dressed up in that gown…." Holmes shook his head. "You took my breath away. That was the moment that I realized that you were easily the most beautiful woman I had ever clamped eyes on."

"Beautiful? Me?" Sian asked, doubtful. She shook her head. "You've got it wrong; Chelsea was always the beauty of the family. Maybe I can pull off cute, or even pretty, on a good day, but never beautiful."

"You are _always_ beautiful," Holmes told her, running his fingers through her hair. "Gorgeous." Sian wanted to lay her head against Sherlock's chest, but she also wanted to watch his face and eyes when he told his story, so she contented herself with entwining her fingers in his.

"Anyway, I realized you were beautiful, and then I realized that I was terribly jealous that you were going out with that vile Paul Livingston. I didn't understand why, and that frightened me.

"So anyway, you left, and I was trying everything I could think of to distract myself. I decided to read, so I went over to your bookshelf and grabbed a book. Of course, the one I had grabbed was _Pride and Prejudice_, so I put it back, but not before images from that movie played themselves in my mind." Sian smiled.

"So, I ended up just dwelling some more on your date, and trying to figure out why I was so angry at the idea of your being with that Livingston fellow, and then a line from that movie went through my mind."

"Which line?" Sian asked softly.

" 'I love you. Most ardently,' " Holmes quoted, making a face. "Very cheesy, I know."

"No, not cheesy," Sian protested. She considered. "Well, maybe a little bit," she amended. "But it doesn't make it any less sweet."

"Thanks," Holmes said, rolling his eyes.

"No problem," she said with a flirty smirk.

"_Anyway_, it was at that moment that I realized how much I was in love with you," Holmes said, serious again. "And it was then that I realized that I couldn't live without you." He tentatively met eyes with Sian, who, uncharacteristically, didn't know what to say.

"Sian?"

Suddenly, Sian threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. And, just as suddenly as she kissed him, she pulled away.

"Come with me," Sian said, grabbing Sherlock by the wrists and heading for the stairs.

"What?" Holmes asked, bewildered.

"I want to show you just how ardently I love you."

---

As they lay in each other's arms in the bed, in the sweet aftermath of their lovemaking, Sherlock hugged Sian close to him. She glanced up at his face, and was surprised to see him gazing intently at her.

"Sian," he said. "I want you to be happy."

"I am happy," she said, meeting his eyes.

"Are you sure?" he asked, holding her tighter. Sian nodded.

"Yes. I'm very happy."

"Hmm."

"I am," she insisted. She even flashed a smile with her old spark. "You're stuck with me forever. Remember?"

"I do," he said, smiling.

"I love you."


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Psyche0610 ≠ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A note: Sorry this took so long—the semester is winding down, and so I'm pretty much swamped with work. Plus, ever since I decided the write down Violet's story, she hasn't left me alone for a minute. I must say, it is very weird to write stories about a person when she is one and eighteen simultaneously.

Chapter Nine

But bliss did not last long in the Holmes household. Not two days after Sherlock and Sian had reconciled, the murderer had struck again.

"Damn!" Holmes yelled, throwing the telegram from Lestrade onto the breakfast table. Sian glanced over at him as she was feeding Jack his breakfast. Violet banged hungrily on her highchair.

"Just a minute, dear," Sian told her daughter. "What's Lestrade have to say?" she asked her husband.

"There's been another murder," Holmes said through gritted teeth. Sian bit her lip.

"I'm sorry." Holmes shrugged.

"It's not your fault." He sighed, resignedly. "It's just that I hate when people die while I'm on the case." He shrugged again. "I almost feel as if I should have been able to prevent it."

"Sherlock," Sian said mildly. "You've only been on the case for a handful of days, with no real inciting evidence. You're a detective, not a psychic." This rewarded Sian with a chuckle. She grinned.

"Well," Holmes said, "I should go investigate, then." He reached for his coat from the rack.

"Okay, Sherlock. Have fun."

"Sian, I'm going to go look at a dead body," Holmes said, amused. "How much fun could that possibly be?"

"I didn't mean it _that _way," Sian protested. She looked in his face. "What I really meant was be safe."

"Very well. I'll be safe." He smirked. "Maybe I'll consult a psychic while I'm out."

"Give my regards to Madam Zeroni, then," Sian said seriously, nodding her head. She heard Sherlock chuckle as he left the house. She smiled. She was so happy that everything seemed to be right between them now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, who bustled into the room, scrap of paper in her hand and tears glittering in her eyes. Sian may not have been Sherlock Holmes, but she knew enough to realize that something was wrong.

"Mrs. Hudson, what's wrong?" Sian asked, rushing to the housekeeper's side.

"It's my sister," she said sorrowfully, trying to keep the tears from falling.

"What's wrong with her?"

"Dear Anne has been ailing for years now, and now she's finally passed on, God rest her soul." She sniffled.

"Oh my God, Mrs. Hudson, I'm so sorry." Mrs. Hudson sniffled. Sian squeezed her hand sympathetically. "You were close to Anne?" she asked.

"Yes, we were very close as girls."

"Then you must go straightaway and spend this sad time with your family," Sian decided.

"But, Mrs. Holmes, my family is from Liverpool. I'd be away for several days."

"I think that your sister and family are more important right now," Sian reassured. "Now, why don't you go and pack your bags, and I'll take care of things around here while you're gone."

"Bless you, Mrs. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her sleeve.

Within half an hour, Mrs. Hudson and packed her carpetbag and was on her way to the train station, bound for Liverpool. Practically alone in the house, Sian turned her attention to her children. They were still seated in their highchairs, with Jack stirring his hand round in his applesauce, and Violet gnawing on the end of her spoon. Sian laughed, shaking her head.

"Come on, then," she said, lifting her son out of his chair. "Why don't we go visit Uncle John again today?"

---

"Mrs. Holmes! I mean, Sian!" Watson exclaimed as Betsy ushered her into the parlor. "It's so good to see you so soon." Sian flashed a smiled at the doctor.

"Hey, Dr. Watson," she said, shifting the babies in her arms. "I hope you don't mind that I came round again today."

"Nonsense," Watson said, taking Violet from Sian's arms. "It's always a delight to see you and the children."

"Thanks," she said, grinning. She was, Watson noticed straightaway, in much better spirits than he had seen in weeks.

"You look better, Mrs. Holmes," Dr. Watson noted. Sian smiled brightly.

"I am, actually. Thank you."

"Any reason in particular?" Sian bit back a private smile.

"We finally talked out our problems," she said, "but I really think what helped a lot was my talk with you, Dr. Watson. I think it got a lot of my worries off my chest."

"Good," he said, nodding his head.

"I want to thank you for that," Sian said. "You're always here when Sherlock and I need you."

"It's no problem," Watson said modestly. "And anyway, I am glad that everything turned out well, and am pleased that you are still in love with Sherlock."

"My love for Sherlock never wavered," Sian said firmly. "I think all I needed was just, um, a reminder."

"Ah."

"I remember thinking before I agreed to marry Sherlock that he was the only friend and family I needed—and I still think that," she said. "If I could only have one person in the world to be with, it would be him, hands down. Well," Sian amended, glancing down at Jack and Violet, and thinking of the baby she believed would come in a few months' time, "it used to be just him. Now I have three added extras."

"_Three _added extras?" Watson repeated. "You have Jack and Violet. Who's the third?"

"Oh, dear." Sian blushed. "I didn't mean to say anything."

"You're expecting another child?" Watson guessed.

"Yes."

"Well, congratulations! Have you told Holmes yet?"

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until I made it to my second trimester, just to be sure."

"I see." Sian shrugged.

"Could you please have selective amnesia there and not mention it to Sherlock?" she asked. "I'd like it to be a surprise."

Watson, who still had problems with Sian's frequent anachronisms, nodded.

"I shan't say a thing, Mrs. Holmes," Watson said grandly. "You have my word."

"Thanks, Dr. Watson. You're a good friend, both to Sherlock and to me."

"Thank you."

"I think that being pregnant might have been my whole problem," Sian went on. "My hormones were probably just imbalanced." Sian stopped, realizing what she had said. Watson looked decidedly embarrassed. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. I'm sure that's the last thing you want to hear—a pregnant woman babbling on about her hormones."

"It's no matter," Watson said awkwardly. "I suppose that it's a good thing that your, um, problem was nothing more than a result of your, um, pregnancy, as opposed to something else."

"Yeah, I know," Sian agreed. "I've been acting like I'm freaking bipolar lately, so I'm glad that it's just my being pregnant." Watson gazed at her.

"Oh, gosh. I didn't just say 'freaking bipolar' out loud, did I?" she groaned.

"I'm afraid that you did."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. I seriously need to learn to hold my tongue, or at least when it comes to using twenty-first century expressions." Watson merely chuckled.

"It's part of your charm, I suppose." Sian rolled her eyes.

"At least that's what I'm told," she said. She glanced at the clock behind her. "Well, I should probably go now, Dr. Watson. I should probably call on the other ladies on Baker Street—I've kinda been neglecting them lately," she confessed.

"Well, thank you for calling on me, then," Watson said, rising to his feet.

"Oh, no problem. It's always pleasant."

"Say hello to Sherlock for me."

"I shall. Good-bye!"


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: not mine. Pretty soon, I'll own some new people, though.

Chapter Ten

Meanwhile, Holmes was in a back alley with Lestrade, inspecting the body of the new victim.

"When was he found?" Holmes asked tersely.

"He was found about an hour ago," Lestrade said. "A young girl found him this morning while walking her dog. We believe that he was killed sometime last night."

"Obviously," Holmes said, waving a hand over the body. "His rigor mortis has fully set in, and his clothes are gleaming with the morning dew. Not to mention the dried blood around the bullet hole.

"Now," he continued. "Have you identified the man yet?"

"Dr. Harold Newberry, a local dentist."

"Hmm," Holmes mused. He tapped the man's foot with the toe of his shoe. "And you found the handkerchief?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." Holmes glanced over the man again. "Wait a minute. This man has black hair."

"Um, yes," Lestrade said helpfully.

"And I'd estimate about six feet tall. That's more than usually average, wouldn't you say?"

"I suppose," Lestrade ventured.

"This man shares many of the same features with the last victim," Holmes said. "That is unusual."

"You think that some person is running around London and killing men because of their appearance?" Lestrade asked, skeptical.

"Perhaps that sounds far-fetched, but that's as much of a correlation as we have between the victims. What did the first four victims look like?" Lestrade simply shrugged.

"Look into it, then," Holmes barked. "I think my work is down here. Send word to me about the first victims' appearances swiftly." Holmes bowed stiffly. "Good-day, then."

---

Holmes was greeted by a strange and spicy smell permeating through the house when he walked through the door. He tried not to grimace. Sian must be cooking.

He greeted his wife with a kiss on the cheek as she stirred whatever it was she was preparing.

"Hello, Sian."

"Hey, handsome," she said flashing a smile up at him.

"Where is Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked warily, glancing at her concoction in the pan. "Some sort of family emergency, I suppose?"

"Yeah," Sian said sympathetically. "Her sister died, so I gave her time off to spend time with her family."

"Are you sure you can manage without her?" he asked.

"Of course I can, Sherlock," Sian said, mock-indignantly. "All I have to do is take care of two children. Well, and prepare meals. And clean the house. And do the laundry." Sian paused. "Okay, so maybe it's more than I really thought, but I can fully take care of it. I did all that before I married you, remember."

"That was when you had all those modern convinces," Holmes noted. "You also didn't have two toddlers to keep you on your toes."

"I can do it," Sian insisted. "We'll be perfectly fine without Mrs. Hudson for a few days."

"Hmm."

"Shut up," Sian said cheerfully, pouring the mysterious contents from her pan into a bowl. "Dinner's done."

"Dare I ask what it is?" Holmes asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, since I was cooking dinner, I thought that for a change, I could make—"

"Never mind," Holmes said, smiling. "I'll go fetch the children."

---

Lestrade sent the files over to Baker Street the next day. When Sian came downstairs from putting the twins down for their nap, she saw Holmes sitting hunched over his desk.

"Hey," Sian said quietly, sitting on the corner of his desk. "What're you up to?" Holmes glanced up at her.

"Lestrade sent the files from the case over," he said. Sian noticed that he had the photographs of five different men spread across his desktop.

"Are those the victims?" Sian asked, studying one man's sharp nose and piercing eyes.

"Yes." Sian shivered.

"Have you figured out why they're being killed?"

"Well, I do have a hypothesis, albeit a rather weak one," Holmes admitted.

"And what's that?"

"Well, the only thing that these men have in common would be their appearance," Holmes said. "They all had dark hair, sharp features, and were more than average height." Holmes heaved a resigned sigh. "It's an unusual motive for murder, I will admit, but that's all we have right now."

Sian rubbed his back. "I know you'll figure out, Sherlock," she said, pressing a kiss against his temple. "You always do." Holmes smiled.

"Thank you, Sian."

---

"Phew!" Sian said as she walked downstairs that evening. Holmes, who had been playing his violin in front of the lit fireplace, stopped playing and glanced over at her.

"Did you have a hard time putting Jack and Violet to bed?" he asked as Sian flopped onto the sofa. She nodded wearily.

"They were a little freaked out by the thunderstorm," Sian said. "But they're asleep now." Holmes nodded as he joined his wife on the sofa. He absently drummed his fingers against the violin.

"Did you come up with anything yet?" Sian asked, nodding her head at the instrument.

"Not yet," Holmes said. "Usually playing the violin clears my mind, but it hasn't worked yet. I just feel that there's something I'm overlooking. Something big." Sian curled up next to her husband, and Holmes wrapped his arm around her.

"This is nice," Sian said. "The babies are asleep, you're not out working, it's pouring outside but it's snug in here by the fire."

"We should do this more often," Holmes agreed. He looked down at Sian, and saw that she was looking intently up at him. Running his fingers through her hair, he leaned down to kiss her.

A loud pounding at door interrupted them. Sian sighed, and Holmes groaned as he pulled away from his wife to answer the door.

"Yes?" Holmes asked, but then he noticed it was Lestrade at his door.

"Come quickly," Lestrade said urgently. "We've found another body, and it appears to be a recent murder—no more than an hour ago."

"Damn," Holmes growled. He went to get his cloak, but Sian was already standing behind him, cloak and hat all ready for him.

"Be careful," Sian wished as he took off into the night with the inspector. He waved his hand as a quick response, and Sian soon lost sight off him in the London fog.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: still not mine.

Chapter Eleven

Sian wished that Holmes hadn't left. Soon after he disappeared into the night, Sian had returned to her place in front of the fire, but somehow it didn't seem quite as cozy anymore. Sian shivered. Somehow, in fact, the entire house didn't feel quite as safe anymore, without the presence of her husband. Sian shivered again, and then got up to find her book.

She walked leisurely to the bookshelf and pulled down her new copy of _Pride and Prejudice_. Her fingers trailed lovingly over the gold script emblazoned on the fine leather cover. She lifted the cover, and noticed something she hadn't noticed before; an inscription, written by her husband, on the inside cover.

_My Sian,_

_I love you. Please always know that._

_Love, Sherlock_

Sian felt herself grin foolishly at the short note. It was the closest thing to a love note her practical husband had ever written her. She then remembered the occasion on which he had given her the book; it was when she had been acting so distant and cool, and, in her own words, "bipolar." Sian resolved never to force her husband to have to plead for her love again. She smiled again, and ran her fingers over the love note in Sherlock's precise handwriting on the creamy page of the book.

So absorbed was she in her book that she didn't realize that there was someone behind her, at first.

Sian suddenly felt a presence in the room. She caught a strange figure out of the corner of her eye, and she gasped, dropping her book on the floor.

An arm whipped around her neck, choking her. Sian felt a scream emerging in her throat, but a hand clasped over her mouth.

"Don't scream," the man whispered harshly in her ear. "I have a gun." Sian felt herself stiffen even further.

"I'm going to remove my hand," he whispered. "Are you going to scream?" Sian shook her head. "Good."

Sian was relieved to feel the man's grubby hand pull away, but it was immediately replaced the muzzle of a gun. Sian resisted the urge to scream again.

"You're going to wake the housekeeper," Sian managed to whisper in a panicked voice.

"Now, don't you fib to me, Mrs. Holmes. I saw the housekeeper leave yesterday," he said, in an annoyingly condescending tone.

Sian flinched at his use of her name. _How does he know my name?_ Sian wondered, terrified.

"Now, go and fetch the IEM for me," he said.

"The what?" Sian asked, genuinely confused.

"The IEM! The inter-epoch mechanism, dammit!" he cried, going from condescending to rage in only a matter of seconds.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sian said pleadingly. _He couldn't possibly mean the time travel transporter, could he? No! No one knows about its existence, except for Sherlock, his family, Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and I. And Professor Moriarty. But no—he's dead._

Just as soon as it appeared, the man's rage evaporated.

"I want you," he said, in a voice as sickeningly sweet as honey, "to go and fetch the device that your husband used to travel through time."

"H—how do you know about that?" Sian stuttered.

"I know more about you than you realize, Mrs. Holmes," he said cryptically. _Everything except my first name, apparently,_ Sian thought dimly.

"Now," he said, "go and get the IEM," he ordered. Sian stepped forward. "Wait," he barked. "Not alone. Lead me to it."

Sian obediently walked over to where they kept the transporters, or the IEMs, apparently. Sherlock had thrown the two transporters into a safe beside his desk at the rear of the parlor after their adventures together.

_"These things," he had declared, "are far too dangerous to ever be used. We shall hide them from the world, lest they fall into the wrong hands."_

Sian agreed that those blasted transporters were dangerous, and yet here she was, practically placing them directly into the wrong hands. Although, it _was _rather hard to argue with a gun shoved against her neck.

Sian racked her brain for a plan as she spun the dial open. She knew the combination, of course; Sherlock has set it to the date of their anniversary.

_1… oh, God, please don't let him know what can be done with these transporters… 15… what, are you stupid, Sian? Of course he does! That's why he came here for them! He called them IEMs!... 85… wait! He only said "_the_ IEM," as in just one! He doesn't know we have both!_

Sian carefully opened the door to the safe. The room was dark, save for the eerie glow cast by the light of the fireplace, and the safe was hidden in the shadows. Sian hoped desperately that if she kept her body in front of the safe, combined with the poor lighting, perhaps the man wouldn't realize that there were two transporters in the safe.

She reluctantly pulled out one transporter and resignedly held it up. The man hastily snatched it from her and shoved it into his coat. Sian waited half a second for him to demand the second transporter, but when he failed to speak, Sian slammed the door shut and spun the dial around.

The man roughly yanked Sian to her feet. For the first time, Sian was looking into the face of her intruder. He was a short man with a hard face. He had blue eyes, and although he was wearing a cap to disguise the color, Sian could tell that he had blonde hair. There was nothing remarkable about this man, but somehow, Sian felt as if she had seen him before.

"Now tell me," he said to her in a low voice. "Is your husband fond of your children?"

"No," Sian lied instantly. The man _tsk_ed at her.

"Now, now, I know that's not true, Mrs. Holmes," he said. Sian could hear the glee in his voice. "I've been watching you, Mrs. Holmes, when your husband is gone." The man grinned. "That has been quite a frequent occurrence lately, hasn't it?"

It suddenly hit her.

"It's you!" she whispered, her eyes growing wide and unfocused. "You're the murderer!"

"Holmes did not marry a fool," he said, almost approvingly. And with that, he hit her in the temple with the butt of his gun, making the world go black for Sian.

---

Holmes was tired and wet by the time he finally made his way home to Baker Street. As usual, no new information was gathered at the crime scene—just the standard SH handkerchief and the tall, dark-haired victim. Holmes wondered what he was missing.

He saw there was a faint glow of light still in the parlor windows, which made him smile. Sian must have waited up for him. No matter how late he stayed out, tramping about London, Sian would devotedly wait up for him. He loved when she did that.

He opened the front door and shucked off his dripping cloak. After hanging it up to dry on the coat rack, he wandered into the lit parlor. The light, he noticed, was only the afterglow of the smoldering ashes in the fireplace. He glanced over to the sofa, where he expected to see Sian curled up and reading, and was surprised to see that she wasn't there. Odd.

_No matter,_ Holmes thought. _She just must have gone up to bed. _ He crept up the stairs and opened their bedroom door. The bed was empty.

A feeling of panic and dread began to spread through his body. He ran to the next room and threw the door open. _Sian just must be in the babies' room. She _must_ be._

The room was dark, but just enough light from the gas streetlights outside shone through to show Holmes what he needed to see. The cribs were empty, and there was no sign of Sian anywhere.

_Oh, God._ Holmes ran downstairs to the parlor. There must be a clue somewhere, any sort of clue. Suddenly, Holmes was hit with an awful idea.

_Oh, God, what if…._

He turned towards his desk, and he could see that the dial on the safe wasn't at zero anymore. _ No._

Almost in slow-motion, yet almost at top-speed, Holmes dashed over to the safe and spun the dial as fast as he could. He swung open the door and cried out with what he saw—or rather, didn't see.

There was only one transporter left.

_Oh God, oh no, oh God, oh no._

Sian had left him.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Psyche0610 ≠ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter Twelve

Watson was awakened by a loud crash of thunder.

The noise persisted. _Bang bang bang._ Watson sat up sleepily in his bed. No, that wasn't thunder—it was loud pounding at the door. Watson glanced out the window. It was still pitch black outside. Watson considered ignoring the racket and going back to sleep, but the knocker at the door refused to stop. Watson sighed and, throwing on his dressing robe, headed downstairs.

"Hullo?" Watson started to ask, opening the door, but he stopped mid-syllable. It was Holmes at the door. "Good Lord, Holmes!" Watson cried. "What on earth are you doing here like this?"

It was a good question, because in his haste to Watson's, Holmes had neglected to throw on his cloak and hat, despite the nippiness of the February night air and the still steadily falling rain. Holmes had a desperate and almost wild look in his face, so far from his usual stoicism that it startled Watson.

Holmes clasped Watson's shoulder. "Watson," he said in a strange voice, "please, please, please tell me that Sian is here!"

Watson started. "Sian, here?" he asked. "Of course she isn't. Now please step inside and tell me what is going on. Where is Sian?"

"Oh, God, Watson, she's gone!" Holmes cried out.

"Gone?" Watson repeated, taken aback by the vagueness of the statement.

"Yes, gone! She's left me! She and the children are gone!"

"Now, Holmes," Watson said practically, leading him to the parlor. "You don't know she's left you."

"Oh yes I do," he said. "The safe's been opened and one of the transporters is missing."

"Oh."

"Yes, _oh_," Holmes said bitterly. "And only Sian knew where the transporters were kept, and only Sian knew the combination for the safe, and so only Sian would have been able to take it."

"Oh."

In the lit parlor, Watson could clearly see Holmes's face for the first time. He noticed that his cheeks were shining with moisture, but Watson couldn't tell if it was from streaks of tears or from the steady rain from outside.

"I don't know what to do," Holmes said, leaning his head against his curled fist.

"You're hysterical," Watson noted. "Not much can be done in that state. Why don't you stay in the guestroom, and we can think of a solution in the morning."

Holmes nodded wearily, and Watson led his poor friend upstairs.

---

Holmes was in a sorry state when he came downstairs the following morning. Completely battered and disheveled, Holmes slumped down at the breakfast table with Watson. Watson knew that Holmes had to be in poor spirits if he wasn't making a grab for the_ London Times._

"Good-morning, Holmes," Watson said.

"Good-morning."

"How did you sleep?" Watson asked before he could stop himself. He grimaced at his own question—that probably hadn't been the most tactful inquiry at the moment.

"Terribly, thanks," Holmes said.

The two men were silent. Holmes drummed his fingers agitatedly against the table.

"Have you come to any sort of conclusion on what to do?" Watson asked carefully. Holmes heaved a sigh.

"There's only one thing for me to do," Holmes admitted.

"And that is…?"

"Simply, that I must use the second transporter to go and bring her back."

"Do you think she will?" Watson asked.

"She must," Holmes said. "I—I thought that we were getting better, she and I. I thought that she had gotten over her wave of homesickness." Holmes bit his lip. "I _need_ her, Watson."

Watson had never seen Holmes so emotional before. Was this truly the man who once had claimed that his brain has always governed his heart? The man who once had reasoned that love was an emotional thing, and whatever was emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which he place above all things, which was the reason that he never would get married himself?

Apparently, yes. Watson had always believed that Holmes's opposition to love and marriage was unhealthy, but he had gotten so accustomed to it that it was mind-boggling to see Holmes so emotional.

"I think that you should go," Watson said. "And soon."

"Yes," Holmes agreed.

"But do you know where to even look for her?" Watson asked.

"I think I have a certain place in mind," Holmes said cryptically.

---

Holmes knew that if Sian had returned to the future—oh, who the hell did he think he was kidding?—_her own time_, there was only one person who she would turn to; her father.

Back in his room in Baker Street, Holmes rummaged through the bottom drawer of his bureau, searching. Ah-ha! There it was. Holmes quickly pulled out a small cloth bag, in which laid the clothing that Holmes had worn during his stint in the future. As he pulled the coarse blue slacks out of the bag, his mind flashed back to when Sian had bought them for him.

_"You'll need these," Sian had said, throwing a few pairs of pants atop of the already extensive pile of clothes Holmes had in his arms. Holmes looked at the pants warily._

_"Oh?" he asked._

_"Yep. Blue jeans. Pretty much a staple for any American."_

An American. Was that what Sian had missed? Being an American? Or was it being a woman of the twenty-first century? Hell, was it even just being a Fairfax? Whatever it was, Holmes would accommodate. He needed her, goddammit. He'd live in America, in the year 2009, just to be with her.

Holmes paused. Would he really give up everything for her? His home and career, his friends and family, his time and country, just to be with Sian?

Well, yes. Sian had done it for him without thinking twice. Granted, Sian had also abandoned everything in the end, but he'd ignore that part. He had to get her back.

Without wasting any more time, Holmes hastily dressed himself in his twenty-first century outfit. He had a mission.

Holmes ventured downstairs, where Watson was waiting for him in the parlor. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Holmes dressed in his twenty-first century finery.

"Shut up," Holmes said, using one of Sian's pet phrases. Even just the phrase made his heart pang.

"Now," Holmes said, "I will go to Sian's father's home and see if he knows where she is. If she's gone anywhere in the future, that is where she would go."

"Be careful, Holmes," Watson said.

"I will," Holmes said, and with that, he disappeared into the future. Again.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine, but now Ernest is!

Chapter Thirteen

Holmes looked at the house ahead of him. It was a small house, painted white with light blue shutters, and was nicely kept up. Around the back, Holmes could see a small fort built on a branch of a tree. Holmes felt his heart ache inside his chest; this was the house where Sian was raised.

Holmes remembered Sian fondly telling him stories about her childhood in this house; how her father would paint the shutters and mailbox each year while she and her sister and mother would plant tulips in the front garden. She'd tell him about how she helped her father build the tree fort, and about the one time when she fell out when she was five and broke her wrist. She'd tell him about how her family liked to sit out on the front porch in the summer evenings, drinking lemonade and chasing after fireflies. Holmes had heard so much about her childhood in the small white house of 361 Orchard Drive that he felt as if _he _had been there before.

Holmes took a deep breath and approached the front door. It was light blue, just like the shutters. Holmes knocked three times on the door.

The door opened. There in the doorway stood a man, and while he didn't look exactly like Sian, Holmes still could see traces of her in the man's face. This had to be her father.

"Mr. Ernest Fairfax?" Holmes ventured.

"Yes?" he asked, shifting his glasses and squinting his eyes at him.

"I have an urgent question for you," Holmes asked. "I know this may sound strange, but… is your daughter here?"

"My daughter?" Ernest asked, confused. "You mean Chelsea?"

"No, I mean Sian."

"Sian?" Ernest's face dropped. "I'm sorry that I have to tell you this, but Sian's been missing these past two years." This time Holmes's face dropped.

"Then you mean, she's not here?"

"Yes. And just who are you anyway, young man?" Ernest asked suspiciously. "A friend of hers?"

"No," Holmes said wearily. "I'm her husband."

"Husband?" he demanded. "No. My Sian was never married."

"Nonetheless, I _am_ her husband."

_Her husband_. Ernest could definitely see Sian being married to a man like him. Having been her chief caretaker during her turbulent teenage years, he had seen boyfriends come and go, and he knew that Sian went for the dark, scholarly type, rather than Chelsea, who preferred the blonde athletic guys. And the British accent Ernest knew Sian would have found extremely attractive—he had sat through enough BBC productions to vouch for that one. Even still… _married?_ For all these years, without any sort of contact? Ernest snapped out of his thoughts with a shake of his head.

"What is your name?" Ernest demanded. "And just what are you doing here? Trying to torment me?"

"No; that's the last thing I want to do," the strange man said.

"Then why are you here, conjuring up ghosts of the past?" Ernest demanded of the man. "Sian is not here. She was never married. And what's more, she's probably dead by now." Oh, it hurt to be so cruel to his daughter, but Ernest had to face reality sooner or later.

The man narrowed his eyes at him.

"Sian's not dead," he said. "At least I don't think so. And she hasn't been held captive for the past two years—she's been with me."

"You?" Ernest asked, feeling the dangerous edge creep into his own voice. "You _stole _my _daughter?_"

"I didn't steal her—she came willingly when I proposed to her. We've been married for the past two years."

"And just where might the two of you have been?" Ernest growled.

"Honestly? We've been living quite happily in London, England, in the 1880's." Ernest scowled at the man.

"Get out."

"But wait," he cried. "That's the truth. I know it sounds rather unlikely—"

"Unlikely? It's ridiculous! That entails time travel! Fantasy!"

"But—"

"Get out!"

The man stayed where he was.

"What if," he began slowly, "I was able to provide you with irrefutable proof that what I'm saying is the truth? Would you believe me?"

Ernest studied the man before him. He wanted to tell him where to go, to demand that he leave his property, or even to call the police on him. _Give him a chance_, a small voice in the back of his head persuaded. Most people would call that kind of voice a conscience; Ernest had taken to calling it his inner Sian. She usually made her opinions known when he wasn't being fair enough, or at least when he needed to be kinder and more sunshiny. Ernest sighed.

"Very well," he said. "If you could provide me with irrefutable proof that your story is the truth, then I will believe you."

"Excellent," Holmes said to Sian's father. He didn't know why it was so essential to him to let her father know what had become of his daughter, but somehow it had come to be of the utmost importance to him. Holmes reached for his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and removed a few small photographs.

The man handed the top photograph to Ernest.

"Look," he prompted. Ernest looked.

It was an old black-and-white photograph, featuring a man and a woman holding two small children. Ernest saw right away that the man in the photo was the man on his front porch.

"Lovely family," Ernest said. He tried to hand the photo back to the man, but he refused to take it.

"_Look _at it," he commanded. "At the woman." Ernest glanced down at the photo again, this time his full attention on the woman. He felt his heart stop.

It was Sian.

Yes, perhaps the colors were hard to tell in the black-and-white photo, and yes, maybe the period costume threw him off a little, but the woman in the photograph was undeniably Sian Elisabeth Fairfax. Her bright smile was the easiest identifier. He ran his finger over the loose hair that he knew to be blonde in real life.

Ernest then took notice of the children—babies, really—in the photograph. The man was holding a dark-haired little girl in his arms, and Sian had a chubby little boy in her lap. Ernest felt himself stagger.

The man seemed to read his mind.

"Those are our children," he said softly.

"Children?" Ernest gasped.

"Yes. John Siger and Violet Ernestine." Ernest finally tore his gaze away from the photo to look up at the man.

"Ernestine?"

"That was Sian's idea," the man said.

"I—uh, oh, gosh."

"Do you believe me?"

"You could have had these pictures taken anywhere," Ernest argued feebly.

"But we didn't," the man said. "Look at the back." Ernest automatically flipped the photograph over. Printed on the back were the words "the Holmes Family, 1887."

"Oh, God," Ernest gasped.

"Do you believe me?"

"I need to sit down," Ernest proclaimed. "Or better yet, I need a drink."

Ernest led the man into the house.

"Why are you here?" Ernest asked the man, who evidentially was his son-in-law. He could hardly fathom. "You were looking for Sian, but I thought she was with you?"

The man sighed. "Perhaps Sian hasn't been missing for the past two years, but she is now. I came home last night to find that she and the children were gone—I thought that she had left me."

"And you thought that she came here?" Ernest asked. The man nodded. "How is this even possible?" Ernest asked.

"It's a long and complicated story," the man said. "But I'll give you the short version." And the man proceeded to tell an extraordinary tale, riddled with time travel, archenemies, and grand adventures. And romance which, Ernest was upset to hear, involved his daughter.

"How can I believe that?" Ernest asked the man. He shrugged. The man's gray eyes were brimming with an unbearable sorrow, that much was evident. _Surely no one can be that good an actor…._

"Very well," Ernest said. "I'll believe you."

"If Sian isn't here," the man asked, "is there a chance that she went to her mother's house instead?" Ernest shrugged.

"I doubt it," he said. "She's never been especially close to her mother." He saw the man's face drop. "But I can call and check anyway," he continued. He moved to the phone.

It rang three times before someone picked up.

"Hello?" someone asked in her fakey-phone voice.

"Hey, Lisa?" Ernest asked in his friendliest tone. "It's Ernest." Lisa's tone dropped the façade immediately.

"Oh. Hi, Ernest," she said in a bored tone.

"Listen, Leese, I have a quick question for you… have you seen our daughter?"

Holmes was listening in on Ernest's side of the conversation. He was impressed at the purposeful vagueness Ernest had invoked by just saying "our daughter." He watched as Ernest nodded silently into the phone.

"I know her numbers," Ernest insisted. "It's just that I haven't been able to reach Chelsea today. I thought maybe that she was at your house for a visit and her cell was in her car, or something." He stopped to listen again. "Oh, yes, she does have work today. Yes, it was stupid of me to forget. Well, you know my memory. Good-bye, Lisa." Ernest hung up and turned to Holmes.

"I don't think she's there," he said. "Lisa definitely would have been bubbling over."

"Is there anyone else she might have turned to?" Holmes asked.

"I don't think so." Holmes felt his eyes widen.

"Then that means… she didn't leave me!" he said triumphantly. "I had it all wrong!" He stopped. "Oh, God. Then that means that she didn't leave me!"

"Isn't that what you just said?" Ernest asked.

"Yes, but if she didn't_ leave_ me, then that means that she was _taken_ from me. Oh, God," he moaned. He snapped back to attention. "Excuse me, I must leave,_ now_."

"Where are you going?"

"I've wasted enough time investigating the wrong theory," Holmes said angrily. "I must return to my own time immediately." Holmes wasn't expecting what Ernest said next.

"I'm going with you," he said.

"What? No!"

"Listen to me," Ernest said, taking a hold to his sleeve. "I've believed that my daughter has been dead for the past two years, but today I've learned that she's been alive and well. But I also learned that not only has my daughter been kidnapped, but my grandchildren have been as well. I must go with you." Holmes studied Ernest. "Please," he said. "Just think about it from my perspective. You know what I'm feeling right now—you're a father, just like me, and your daughter is also missing, not to mention your son. I am going with you."

"Very well," Holmes said shortly. He waved his hand at the phone. "Now please make arrangements to cover for your disappearance, and let's go."

Ernest didn't need to be told twice—in an instant, he pounced on the phone and quickly punched in a number.

"Hello? Is this Wayne? Listen to me, Wayne. This is Ernest. I'm going to be away for the next few days. Yes, I know that this is short notice—and yes, I know that too." Ernest listened. "No, I do not know how long I'll be gone. Just tell them to keep using up my sick days until I call and say otherwise," he barked. He listened, then nodded. "Okay. Bye."

"What do you do for a living?" Holmes inquired politely. Sian had never said.

"I'm an accountant ," Ernest said brightly. "And what do you do, son?" Holmes bristled at the affectionate term… "son." Holmes shook away the feeling.

"I'm a detective," Holmes said carefully.

"Really?" Ernest looked impressed. "You know, I just realized that I never asked you for your name."

"Why don't we wait until we get back to my own time before I say?" Holmes suggested. Ernest flinched.

"Okay," he said, almost uneasily.

"How does the time travel transporter work?" he asked.

"I'll work the machine to take us where we want to go," Holmes said. "You just need to grab onto my arm."

And with that, Holmes and Ernest disappeared into the blue light.

The next thing that Ernest knew, he was in a room of a house he had never seen before. He looked around. He could see his son-in-law standing beside him, and also another man, who had appeared to be waiting for his return.

"Who is this?" the new man asked.

"This," his son-in-law said, "is Sian's father, Mr. Ernest Fairfax. Mr. Fairfax has requested to assist us in finding Sian. Obviously, she was not in the future." He turned to Ernest.

"This," he said, gesturing to the other man, "is my associate, Dr. John Watson."

"Dr. Watson?" Ernest repeated, dumbfounded.

"Yes. And I am Sherlock Holmes."


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: not mine

Chapter Fourteen

"Y—y—you can't be Sherlock Holmes," Ernest stuttered. "Sherlock Holmes isn't real!"

"I get that a lot," Holmes said dryly. Ernest stood with his mouth agape. "But, nonetheless, you can quite clearly see that I am indeed a real person, and so let's bypass all that, shall we, and march straight into the investigation." Holmes scanned the room.

"Watson—you didn't happen to move anything while you were waiting, did you?" he asked.

"No, of course not."

"Good." Something suddenly caught Holmes's eye, and with an "ah-ha!" he pounced upon the floor.

"What have you got?" Watson asked. Holmes held up his clue.

"A book?" Ernest asked, dumbfounded. "I thought you had a clue."

"I do have a clue," Holmes corrected.

"But it's just a book."

"Yes, but this is Sian's book, and it was on the floor."

"So?"

"That's a rather unusual place to keep a book," Holmes noted dryly, "especially in a room with so many tables, not to mention the bookshelf. And bear in mind, this is Sian we're talking about. She would never leave her book face-down on the floor."

"That's true," Ernest admitted.

"And so, what I see so far is that a person, probably a man, snuck into the house from the rear and startled Sian, causing her to drop her book."

With that being said, Holmes dropped to the floor, inspecting the rug. "I can see some traces of mud on the rug," he said, "but that is not unusual, since it was raining last night."

Watson and Ernest watched—Watson with amusement, and Ernest with amazement—as Holmes began to crawl across the floor, inspecting as he went. He stopped a few paces before the safe.

"Blood," he said.

"Blood!" Ernest repeated.

"Yes," Holmes replied tersely.

"Was she—was she stabbed?" Holmes felt a corner of his mouth tug upwards.

"There's not nearly enough blood for that, Mr. Fairfax. I would imagine that the man hit her in the head and knocked her unconscious. I also can see strands of her hair that snagged in the splinters of the hardwood." Ernest staggered, and fell into the seat behind him. Holmes paced across the parlor.

"I never thought my own home would ever be a crime scene," he muttered.

"We'll find her, Holmes," Watson said gently.

"It's not just Sian I'm worried about," Holmes said brokenly. "Jack and Violet are gone too. It's just that… they're babies. Not even a year old yet."

Ernest suddenly made a strange sound. It wasn't quite like a sob, but it was so miserable and pathetic that it even broke the heart of the already broken-hearten Holmes.

"My daughter," Ernest cried.

"My wife," Holmes added softly. "And my two children."

"Well," Watson began, but he stopped suddenly. Holmes caught Watson's almost-statement.

"What?" he demanded.

"It's just… what you just said," Watson began. "Sian… she wanted me to keep this a secret, but I feel that you should know now, considering the circumstances."

"Well?" Holmes demanded.

"Sian is… expecting."

"Expecting? Another child?" Holmes asked, his voice dazed. He slumped into his armchair. "That has changed the factors considerably," he said between gritted teeth.

"The factors?" Watson echoed.

"Yes. That has increased the amount of hurt I will feel if anything should happen to them. If such a thing was possible," Holmes said darkly.

"Oh, dear," Watson fretted. "Maybe I should have kept it secret."

"No," Holmes said shakily. "No. If anything, it only added to my… incentive… to find them. Again, if such a thing was possible." Holmes sighed, and rested his chin on his hands, contemplative. "Sherlock Holmes… husband and father of three." He grimaced. "Those words would sound so much sweeter if Sian and the little ones were here, safe."

Just then, Mrs. Hudson shuffled through the front door, scarf on her head and carpetbag in hand.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked, confused. "Didn't you just leave for a funeral?"

"It's the funniest thing," Mrs. Hudson said, sounding dazed. "I got to Liverpool all right, but when I got to my sister's house, I found out that she hadn't died, after all. She was in the peak of health, no less. I, of course, was happy to see her alive and well, but I was much embarrassed for my mistake. But who on earth would have sent me a false telegram?"

"The kidnapper," Holmes growled.

"The what?" Mrs. Hudson, her hand flying to her heart. She finally looked around the room. Spying Ernest, she said, "Who is this gentleman? And where are Mrs. Holmes and the wee ones?"

"This is Mr. Fairfax, Sian's father," Holmes said. "And Sian and Jack and Violet… well, they…." Holmes couldn't say it.

"They were kidnapped," Watson whispered gently.

"Oh, my heavens!" Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"Yes," Holmes agreed sullenly.

"And you think that… that the telegram was sent… was sent to get me out of the way?"

"I think that seems pretty obvious," was Holmes's moody response.

"I—I—" Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to know what to do.

"Everyone is a little on edge," Watson said finally, explaining for his companions. "Why don't you prepare a pot of tea for us?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and rushed off to the kitchen, because, in her mind, a pot of tea could set almost everything right.

Holmes angrily paced over to the window and glanced out. "Ah, just the lad I wanted to see," he said. He threw open the window. "Cartwright!" he barked at the boy passing by. He stopped and looked up. "Yes, you! Go down to Bradley's and have them send up a shag of their strongest tobacco." Cartwright nodded. Holmes tossed him a coin. "For the tobacco," he said, and, tossing a second coin, he added, "and for your trouble."

Holmes shut the window. Ernest eyed him suspiciously. "You're just going to sit here and _smoke?_" he asked, bewildered.

"No, I'm going to sit here and think," Holmes corrected. "It usually goes along with detective work."

"I thought you gave up smoking," Watson said.

"_This_ is an emergency."

---

"The question is, what would the motive be?" Holmes finally asked, one pipe and three cups of tea later. Ernest and Watson glanced up from their cups.

"I mean, why go through all the trouble of getting the housekeeper out of the way if a crime was going to be committed?" he asked himself. So caught up in his thoughts was he that he didn't notice that he was absentmindedly adding far too many lumps of sugar into cup number four of tea.

"Maybe so there wouldn't be any witnesses?" Ernest suggested.

"But why not just kidnap Mrs. Hudson as well?" Holmes asked. "And they must be alive, because why go through all the trouble of kidnapping people just to kill them later?"

"I—uh…."

"Exactly." He took a triumphant sip of his tea, and his face screwed into a horrible expression at the taste of its over-sugariness.

"But what would the man have against Sian?" Watson asked, slightly amused at Holmes, but remembering that he must be sober. "What could she have possibly done to deserve this?"

"I don't think it has anything to do with Sian," Holmes observed, shoving his teacup away and reaching for his pipe. "I think that the man must have some sort of personal grudge against me, and decided to get his revenge by injuring me in the worst way he possibly could—by attacking my heart."

"Well, that should be easy to figure out," Ernest said. "After all, how long could one's enemy list truly be? Who might have a grudge against you?" Holmes laughed bitterly.

"Do you have any idea how many people I've had put in prison?" he asked.

"No," Ernest admitted. He looked at the dazed look on Watson's face. "That many, huh?"

"Oh yes."

Holmes threw his arms into the air.

"Well, what does it matter who he is? He's killing me. Killing me!" Holmes raged. "He might as well have just taken a knife to my heart and stabbed me in a dark alleyway. I'll be dead!" Holmes stopped suddenly.

"I think that's the point, Holmes," Watson said mildly. "He's trying to hurt you in the worst possible way."

"That's it!" Holmes shouted triumphantly, jumping to his feet. "He's killed me! Killed me! At least six times already!"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Don't you see, Watson? Those men that have been murdered! They were me!"

"You?"

"Yes! That was the correlation! Not social status, not career, nothing at all usual. They all resembled me!"

Watson's eyes widened. "So that was it!"

"He's been killing me, metaphorically, for weeks now. I was just too blind to see it. So now, he's moved on, trying to hurt me in the worst way possible—and quite effectively, I might add."

"So a _murderer _is the one who has Sian and the children?" Ernest demanded. Holmes nodded. "Oh, God, they could be dead!" Ernest moaned.

"I don't think so," Holmes said. "And let me tell you why. The man obviously has some sort of grudge against me, hence my six metaphorical murders. I would assume that he won't rest until he's killed me, in reality, rather than in his sick, twisted mind. Sian and the children might just be being used as bait, to lure me to him."

"So you think that they're alive?"

"I'd stake my life on it," Holmes assured.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I own Sian, Jack, Violet, Ernest, and now Joseph.

Chapter Fifteen

Sian awoke to find herself in a strange room.

She moaned, clutching her aching head, and glanced around. She had no idea where she was, but wherever she was, it certainly wasn't Baker Street.

The room was dark and windowless, so it took some time for her eyes to adjust to the poor lighting. It was a square room, lacking any sort of furniture or décor. In one corner, Sian was able to see the sleeping figures of her babies. She sprang to her feet to get to them… only to stumble down. Sian looked over her shoulder and cried out. She was chained to the wall by the ankle, with only about five feet of chain.

The sound of Sian's body hitting the floor woke Jack and Violet. They looked around at their unfamiliar—and therefore terrifying—surroundings, and let out a cry.

"Oh, come here, my babies," Sian said, trying to sound calmer than she felt. She crawled as far as the chain would allow her. "Come to Mommy, my darlings," she said, opening her arms. Jack and Violet rushed to her side, burying their faces in her chest. She stroked their heads and made soothing sounds. Truly, Sian wished that she had someone to hold her and tell her everything would be okay, even when it looked quite the opposite.

The door suddenly opened. Jack and Violet wailed. In walked the man from before… the kidnapper, not to mention the murderer.

"Well, well, well," he said as he sauntered into the room. "I see that my guests have finally awoken."

Sian bit her tongue. She had been just about to make a sassy remark to him, but she knew better. Had she been the only captive, she certainly would have made some sort of smart-alecky remark, but Jack and Violet were at stake, too. If nothing else, Sian had to keep_ them_ safe.

Instead, Sian hesitantly met his face, willing herself not to tremble.

It was difficult with the poor lighting to be sure, but Sian still got the feeling that she had seen this man before. She couldn't place her finger on it.

When the man didn't seem to be saying anything, Sian figured she might as well get a few questions cleared up.

"Why have you taken us?" she asked, hugging her babies close to her.

"You mean that you haven't figured it out yet?"

"Um. No." Sian considered. "Should I have?"

"Yes! Yes! Do you know who I am?" the man cried wildly. Sian wasn't sure if she liked the fact that the man's emotions went up and down more frequently than a heart monitor. And she thought that _she_ had been acting bipolar.

"Um, the kidnapper?" Sian suggested as an answer. She decided it was probably best not to remind him of the fact that he was a murderer too.

"Moriarty!" the man shouted. "I am Joseph Moriarty!"

"Moriarty!" Sian gasped. "But—but Moriaty's dead!"

"That," the man—Joseph—growled, "would be my brother that you are referring to. My genius, hard-working, and _brilliant _brother, whose time on earth was cut untimely short. And do you know whose fault that is, Mrs. Holmes?" he asked sweetly.

Sian remembered how she herself had shot Moriarty in the head when he had been about to stab Sherlock's very pregnant mother, and subsequently Sherlock himself, back in 1854, either thirty-three or two years ago, depending on how you looked at it. Probably best not to mention that.

"Um," Sian said intelligently. "No one's?"

"No, no, _no!_" he raged. "It was the fault of your husband, that bastard, Sherlock Holmes!" Sian gasped. "Oh, yes," he said. "It probably scathes your maidenly ears to know that your husband travels through time to murder good men!"

_He doesn't know that I killed Moriarty,_ Sian realized slowly, _or that I'm a time-traveler myself_. She decided to use his ignorance to her advantage, however she could.

"But what does this have to do with me?" Sian asked.

"Oh, this has everything to do with you," Joseph said. Sian, panicked, thought that maybe he _did _realize the truth about her. "You are the one who married the 'great detective,' " he continued, sneering over the phrase 'great detective,' "and are the only tangible thing that he cares about." Sian widened her eyes, certain she knew what he was going to say.

Joseph seemed to read her mind.

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you… yet," he said, smiling. "Holmes wouldn't waste his time looking for a dead woman. No, right now, you're nothing more than the worm, just the bait to lure in the real catch."

"Oh, charming," Sian said before she could stop herself. Thankfully, Joseph only looked amused at her pathetic unruliness.

"Feisty, are we?" he asked with a leer. "I wonder what that great fool sees in you."

And, with that, Joseph turned and left, leaving Sian in the dark room, cradling her sleeping babies.

---

Everything about this experience felt surreal to Ernest. He was certain that at any minute, he was going to wake up and find that Sian was missing again, and everything would be as it had before.

Ernest was sitting on the bed in the guestroom he had been given to use. He supposed that he should be asleep, but sleep was the last thing that he felt he could do, especially with all the thoughts running through his mind.

_So,_ Ernest thought, trying to piece the entire story together. _Sherlock was sent to the future, Sian met Sherlock, Sian fell in love with Sherlock, Sherlock proposed marriage to Sian, Sian left everyone to be with Sherlock…._

It hurt him that she'd leave everything—and everyone—she had just to be with this man, a stranger to him. Once upon a time, Ernest had been the only man that Sian had needed in her life. He longed for the days when Sian was just a little girl, and would bound home from the bus stop, drop everything, and climb into his lap to tell him all about her day. But now, Sian was a woman grown, twenty-five years old, even if he still thought of her as twenty years younger.

She, he supposed, had been ready to move on with her life and start her own family. Look, she already had—she had a husband and two small children, with a third little one on the way. Ernest wished desperately that he had had the opportunity to know his grandchildren.

_No,_ _she's fine,_ Ernest reminded himself._ Sherlock believes that they're alive, and if he thinks so, then it must be true. After all, he is Sherlock Holmes._ He was still having trouble getting over that little matter as well.

Well, no matter how confident his new son-in-law may have been, Ernest knew that he would still worry about them.

He reached for the little book that Holmes had found on the floor, his clue. He had handed it to Ernest during his explanation, and Ernest hadn't returned it. It was his daughter's book, and he waned to have something of hers during this entire ordeal.

He smiled at the book. It was _Pride and Prejudice_, which had been Sian's favorite ever since she read it when she was fifteen. He opened the cover, and noticed an inscription on the inside cover page:

_My Sian,_

_I love you. Please always know that._

_Love, Sherlock_

Ernest started, and reread the inscription. Yes, that's what it still said. He felt his heart clench. _Sherlock must truly love my daughter_, Ernest thought. He gently closed the book.

Heaving a sigh, Ernest climbed off the bed and headed downstairs.

---

Ernest found his son-in-law sitting alone in the darkened parlor. The curtains were closed, and not even the light from the gas streetlights below could offer any sort of illumination.

"Sherlock," he said. "I hadn't realized you were up, too." Holmes's mouth formed a grim line. "Can't sleep either?"

"I haven't been able to sleep properly since Sian and Jack and Violet disappeared," Holmes informed him. He started fiddling with something in his hands. Ernest noticed that it was a doll. Holmes noticed his glance.

"This is Violet's favorite toy," he explained softly, stroking its yarn hair with his thumb. "She likes to pretend that it's her baby and she's its mama. I have a toy pram for her upstairs—it was supposed to be a present for her birthday." Ernest nodded grimly.

"And the stuffed horse—the one by your feet—is Jack's favorite." Ernest silently picked it up, fiddling with its tail. Holmes continued, "He likes real horses even more. He likes animals in general, really. I've been thinking about getting a pet for him."

"You love your children," Ernest noted. Holmes nodded.

"As much as I love their mama." He laughed humorlessly. "I'm sure this greatly contradicts with the popular notion of myself, doesn't it?"

"The movies never really portrayed you as being fatherly, no," Ernest agreed. Holmes smirked again.

"So, you've seen those silly movies they made about me?" he asked.

"Let me say, Sian has made me sit through many movies that I'd not ordinarily watch, with Sherlock Holmes movies being many of them."

"I knew that she enjoyed the books, but I hadn't known she liked the movies as well," Holmes said, narrowing his eyebrows.

"Oh, yes," Ernest said. "Sherlock Holmes—well, you, that is—was one of Sian's favorite literary characters."

"Hmm," Holmes mused.

"I remember she was really excited when she went to London right after she graduated from college, because she wanted to go to the Sherlock Holmes museum at Baker Street." Ernest was babbling, and he knew it, but it felt good to talk about Sian after years of silence.

"There's a museum?" Holmes asked sharply. "And she went to it?"

"Well, yes."

"Maybe that's why she was so willing to come with me," Holmes realized slowly.

"What do you mean?" Ernest asked.

"That's why she picked up and left everything without a second thought. Maybe it wasn't true love."

"Well, I don't know about that—" Ernest began, but Holmes interrupted.

"It was hero-worship," Holmes said bitterly. "And bearing the mask of infatuation, Sian mistook it for true love."

"Sherlock—"

"That must be it," Holmes interrupted again. "That's why she's been so unhappy lately—not because she's fallen out of love with me, but because she's realized that she's never truly been in love with me to begin with." Ernest said nothing.

"Damn," Holmes whispered, brushing away the tears from his eyes while trying to appear that he wasn't. _"Damn."_

The two men were silent, contemplative.

"This affects nothing," Holmes said slowly, shakily. "Whatever her true feelings may be, _I_ still love her, more than she will ever know. And I will not rest until she's safe." Holmes squeezed the doll, still in his hands.

"And then?" Ernest asked.

"And then she can go home with you. She can take the babies. I just want her to be happy," Holmes said miserably.

"Sherlock, I—"

"Never mind," Holmes said, and, rising from his seat, he left his father-in-law alone in the parlor, wondering what had happened.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: not Doyle, so not mine

Chapter Sixteen

That same night, on the other side of London, though she didn't know it, Sian was still locked in that room, still a captive of the very insane Joseph Moriarty.

Jack and Violet were both in their mother's lap, terrified of their unfamiliar surroundings, as well as the inky darkness of the windowless room.

The door swung open and Joseph walked in. Also being frightened by Joseph, Jack and Violet buried their faces into their mother's breast.

"I brought you food," Joseph said. He set the tray on the floor and kicked it towards Sian. Sian stared at the tray, unbelieving. Joseph noticed her glance.

"It's not poisoned," he said. "I don't want you dead yet."

"Gee, thanks," Sian murmured under her breath. Well, if she was going to make sassy remarks, she had to at least be sure that _he _heard nothing of them.

Joseph turned to leave.

"Wait!" Sian said. He turned. "Might I please have a candle?" Sian asked pleadingly.

"Why?" he said harshly. "So you can use it to signal out the window?"

"There are no windows in here," Sian pointed out softly.

"Oh."

"My children are afraid of the dark."

"Oh." He left, but soon returned with a stub of a candle, already lit. Sian took it graciously.

"Thank you."

Joseph left the room again.

---

"I think you're being too hard on yourself," Ernest told Holmes as he was pouring himself some tea the next morning at breakfast.

"Most people just say 'good-morning,' " Holmes noted dryly.

"Good-morning, then."

"Good-morning to you, too."

Customary morning niceties out of the way, Ernest charged straight to the matter.

"Listen, Sherlock," he said. "I've been dwelling on what you said all night."

"Oh?" Holmes said, politely disinterested, as he buttered his toast.

"Yes! And I think that you're wrong."

"Oh?" Holmes said again. Ernest slammed his fist against the table.

"Yes, dammit! Stop being so cool and start listening to reason. You love my daughter."

"I do," Holmes admitted, sounding earnest this time.

"And my daughter loves you."

"Well—"

"Listen to me! She loves you. There's no other way about it."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Sian's mother and I got divorced when Sian was ten years old," Ernest told him. "She was old enough to make her own decisions. And when the judge asked her who she'd like to primarily live with, she chose me—she didn't get along quite swimmingly with her mother, you see. And so I was the one who raised Sian when she was really developing her personality. I was the one with whom she'd confide her secrets, share her opinions, and discuss her theories."

"And?" Holmes asked pointedly.

"And, well, I know Sian better than anyone. And Sian, romantic girl that she was, was above all other things, a firm believer in soulmates."

"Soulmates?"

"Yes. I remember her telling me this when she was about thirteen or fourteen. She thought that when people were born, somewhere across the world was their One True Love, who they were destined to be with. I asked her how these two people chanced to meet, when there are millions and millions of other people in the world. I remember just what she told me, too. Her brown eyes were all wide, and she said, 'Well, fate has to intervene sometimes.' "

"That sounds like Sian," Holmes said fondly. Ernest laughed.

"Yes. Too many romance novels at a young age, I suppose. She always was a good reader. _Pride and Prejudice_ was always her favorite."

"Yes, I know," Holmes said. "But how do you know that it's me that she loves, and not just some fantasy she's chasing? How do you know she wouldn't have run off with Mr. Darcy, had he been real? She seemed to be infatuated with him, as well."

"I know her theory of that, as well," Ernest replied. "She made it up when she was sixteen. She called it the Mr. Darcy Theory."

"Oh?" Holmes asked uneasily.

"Yes. She said that all girls were infatuated with Mr. Darcy only because of what he represented."

"Which was?"

"Unwavering, passionate love."

"Ardent love," Holmes whispered to himself, but Ernest heard.

"So, she made you watch that movie, too?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I don't think she's suffering from hero-worship," Ernest said firmly. "I just think that you're her Mr. Darcy. Fate intervened."

"And her recent unhappiness?"

"Well, Dr. Watson said that she's pregnant. And pregnancy, as any husband can vouch, is _not_ a woman's most flattering time of life."

Holmes had to grudgingly admit that was true.

"Listen," Ernest said, placing a hand on Holmes's shoulder. "I know that I'm her dad and I'm _supposed _to think that she's the greatest girl in the world, but I can tell that you think so too." Holmes bit his lip and nodded. "You just need to trust Sian. She loves you—she must."

"Thank you."

---

Watson came back over to Baker Street after breakfast. He and Ernest were seated on the sofa in the parlor, and Holmes was pacing back and forth in front of them.

"What we need to do, gentlemen," Holmes said, with all the authority of a general planning a great and decisive battle, "is to piece together everything we have."

"Right," Watson nodded.

"What we know is this," Holmes began, ticking off his fingers as he went, "one, that the kidnapper and I have some sort of history together, if unwittingly on my part. Two, that the kidnapper has been stalking Sian and myself long, and efficiently, enough that he was able to send our housekeeper a telegram that she believed. Three, that the kidnapper is also the man who has for the past few weeks been killing men who resemble me. And four…." Holmes paused. "He knew about the transporter," he realized slowly.

"Yes?" Ernest asked.

"My greatest enemy, Professor James Moriarty created the transporters," Holmes explained to Ernest. "And I highly doubt that he advertised his invention. That can only mean…."

"That Moriarty is somehow involved," Watson finished. Holmes shook his head.

"Moriarty is dead," Holmes said. "Sian shot him." Ernest flinched at that revelation.

"But—"

"Watson," Holmes said quickly. "That first night, when I went to investigate Moriarty's flat and he transported me to the future, how many men did you say you saw?"

"Two," Watson said. His eyes grew. "Then that means—"

"That our kidnapper is the second man," Holmes said triumphantly. Ernest narrowed his brows.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked.

"Because," Holmes said, "that's what makes the most sense.

"Now," he continued, "the only question we have left is this; who might the second man be?"

"He appeared to be Moriarty's assistant," Watson suggested helpfully.

"Of course he was his assistant, that much is apparent. But why would a mere assistant go on a killing rampage for a mere professor and advisor? Oh no, our man must have had a deeper connection to Moriarty." Holmes drummed his fingers against a nearby table. "Watson!" he barked. "Fetch me my book!"

Watson sprang up and found Holmes's extensive directory. Holmes took it from Watson and immediately flipped to the M section.

"Moriarty, James," Holmes read aloud. He silently scanned the rest of the entry. "Ah-ha!" he said. "Professor Moriarty had a younger brother, a Joseph Moriarty. And that younger brother, I suspect, is the man who has Sian.

"Watson, I want you to go down to Scotland Yard and find whatever you can on the Moriarty brothers," he instructed. "I will go across London and pick up what I can from there."

"What should I do?" Ernest asked.

"Stay here," he advised. "You don't know your way around London, so it would be impractical for you to go out. Anyhow, it would probably put Mrs. Hudson's heart at ease to have a man on the house, because of the goings-on of late."

"Very well," Ernest said, trying not to sound disappointed in his uselessness.

"Come, Watson," Holmes said, grabbing his cloak and hat from the stand. "We haven't a moment to lose!"


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: still not mine.

Chapter Seventeen

Meanwhile, Sian was busy contemplating the best way to pick a lock without any sort of available tool when Joseph walked in, holding another tray with a meager meal.

"Here," he said, shoving the tray at Sian.

"Thank you," Sian said, trying to sound demure. She sat the tray aside, waiting to feed Jack and Violet when they awoke. Joseph still stood in the doorway, and Sian studied him.

Of course, she now realized why she had kept thinking he looked so familiar—he strongly resembled his brother, the late James Moriarty, who Sian had last seen January two years ago, right after she sent a bullet into his skull.

Sian had watched plenty of Court TV in her day (and even more so when Sherlock was living with her). She knew that she couldn't let herself develop Stockholm Syndrome, as many hostages tended to do, but likewise, she needed to instill it on Joseph Moriarty. _The more attached he gets to us,_ Sian remembered, _the less likely he would be to hurt us._

Keeping this in mind, Sian said, conversationally, "So, read any good books lately?" Ah, such a catchall question. Sian had asked it at many a party before, but always in jest, and never in earnest.

Apparently, Joseph had only heard it in jest and never in earnest too. "What are you trying to do?" he growled. Sian willed herself not to flinch, not to look guilty, or panicked, or anything. She merely shrugged a shoulder, as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if Joseph was her friend and not her captor.

"Just trying to fill the silence," she said breezily.

"Oh." He considered. "No, I don't think so," he answered. "What about you?"

Sian was thrilled that her plan seemed to be working. One didn't ask dead meat questions.

"Well, I'm currently rereading _Pride and Prejudice_," she chattered. "It's my favorite book, you see. What's yours?" _Just need to humanize myself… let him see that I'm more than just another body to kill…._

Sian didn't get to continue very long with her praise for _Pride and Prejudice_, however.

"Enough of this foolishness!" Joseph raged. "Why hasn't Holmes found you yet?""My husband is a detective," Sian said primly, "not a psychic." Deciding to play on his ego, and therefore hopefully getting on his good side, she continued. "You've covered your tracks too well. You're a criminal mastermind." Hmm. Maybe that was laying on a little too thick? Oh well.

Joseph just scowled at her.

"Stop sassing me," he commanded. "You think I don't notice your snide remarks, but I do. Don't make me make a change in my current plans."

Sian instantly shut her mouth.

Joseph left the room soon after that.

_I hope Sherlock finds us soon,_ Sian thought desperately.

---

Mrs. Hudson made herself busy in the kitchen, hoping that the presence of food would somehow alleviate Sian, Jack, and Violet's disappearance, at least for a short time.

Ernest, however, wasn't able to distract himself so easily. He paced across the room, dwelling as he did, on everything that had happened. He came across a silver picture frame, sitting on what he assumed to be Sherlock's desk. He picked it up. It was the picture that Sherlock had shown him before—the one where he and Sian were holding Jack and Violet.

"That one was taken the day after their anniversary," someone said behind him. Ernest turned around; it was Mrs. Hudson, tray of tea and scones in hand.

"It is?" he asked, studying it.

"Oh, mercy yes. Mrs. Holmes liked the idea of having a picture taken near their anniversary each year—she said it would be fun to see how the family grew with each year."

"So this would be their second anniversary picture?"

"Yes. January 15, 1887."

"Hmm." Ernest set down the picture. "Are there many other pictures around?" he asked. He was desperate to see any image of his beloved daughter, not to mention curious to see how she had adjusted to life in such a different time.

"Of course!" Mrs. Hudson said, in response to his question. "Mrs. Holmes does love to have photographs taken."

"I can believe that," Ernest said dryly, thinking back to all the photo albums and scrapbooks Sian had made in her high school years.

Mrs. Hudson led Ernest to a low table, filled with picture frames. She picked one up. "This one is their wedding photo," she said. Ernest looked at it. He knew that most people tended to look serious in old photos like this, but it had been impossible for Sian to keep the grin from her face. And although an obvious smile was absent from Sherlock's face, Ernest noticed that he couldn't quite keep the joy from dancing in his eyes.

"This," Mrs. Hudson said, "is a photo of Mr. Holmes's family, taken a few months after their marriage.

"And this," she continued, "is a photo of dear little Jack and Violet, a month after their birth."

Ernest couldn't stop himself from looking at every picture on the table. Not all of them featured Sian, but in the ones that did, he could see that she was obviously happy with her life in nineteenth century London.

_Would she want to come home with him, as Sherlock seemed to think she might? Ernest _wondered. He doubted it. With all that her life had to offer her, why would she return?

---

The men regrouped that evening.

"So, Watson," Holmes said, a glass of port, "what did you learn from Scotland Yard about our favorite pair of brothers, James and Joseph Moriarty?" He handed the glass to Watson, and poured another.

Watson shrugged, accepting the liquor. "Of the former, nothing that we didn't already know. But, I did find that the younger brother has been incarcerated these past two years for petty crimes."

"Ah," Holmes said. "That would explain why he has decided to strike so late after the fact."

"What did you learn, Sherlock?" Ernest asked. "Anything about Sian?"

"Joseph Moriarty is leasing a residence down in London's east end, a rather disheveled and rundown building, from a Mr. Pontsbottom. I also learned other miscellaneous bits of information about our dear friend, rather pointing to his questionable character."

"And how came you by this information?" Ernest asked suspiciously.

Holmes raised his brows. "I have my ways."

"But that building—that's where you think he has her?"

"Undoubtedly. Joseph is, however, in the possession of his dead brother's flat, but it would be much too stupid to keep a kidnapped woman and children on one's own property. Hence his leasing of the dilapidated building."

Ernest jumped to his feet. "Well, let's get over there!" he shouted.

"Right now?" Holmes asked.

"Yes!"

"And you don't think that is too hasty?"

"No! We can't waste a second—we need to rescue Sian and the children tonight!"

"I agree," Holmes said. "However, I think we must pause a moment to form a plan, not to mention outfit ourselves with weapons."

"Oh."

There was a sudden rapping at the door.

"Who could that be?" Watson wondered aloud, glancing at his pocket watch.

"Lestrade," Holmes said. "I invited him to our little party."


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: not mine!

Chapter Eighteen

_I should have told him I loved him,_ Sian thought.

By the second night of her captivity, Sian's spirits had completely sunk. At present, she was seated on her floor, with her arms resting on her knees and her face buried in her arms. Because of the lack of lighting, Sian had completely lost concept of time. By her calculations, which were admittedly skewed, considering the circumstances, Sian estimated that she and Jack and Violet had been held captive for three or four days at least. She hoped that Sherlock would find them soon.

_Sherlock._

_Yes, I should have told him I loved him, _Sian thought again. _And I should have told him I'm pregnant, too._

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, Sian was anywhere but there. She was in the parlor at Baker Street, playing with Jack and Violet on the floor. Suddenly, the door opened, and Sherlock walked inside. He had been investigating all day, so he was tired and hungry and wet and cross. She was tired, too, since the twins had kept her on her toes all day and had been especially energetic, not to mention the little household trifles that seem to pile up into one frustrating mess.

But when their eyes met, gray meeting with brown, it didn't matter anymore, and their troubles washed away when she found herself wrapped in his welcoming arms. They kissed, and the world was right again. His fingers wove themselves through her long blonde hair, which she never remembered to pull up, and her hands were busy memorizing every inch of his face; there were his ears, the creases of his forehead, the wrinkles that were starting to form when he smiled, his strong cheekbones.

Sian sighed. If only that fantasy could be her reality.

"Mama." A small voice interrupted her thoughts. She lifted her face, and found Jack at her side.

"Mama," he said again.

"Hello, my sweet little Jack," Sian said, pulling her son into her lap. He squirmed. "How's my boy?" she asked, turning him so that she could see his face. His forehead was smudged with dirt and grime, his cheeks were not quite so chubby, and there was a definite fear still in his brown eyes. "Scared, huh?" she asked. "I know I need to be brave for you and Violet—" At the sound of his sister's name, Jack instantly turned his head towards the corner where he and Violet had taken to sleeping. Violet was still lying there, with her arm propping her head like a pillow.

"—but the truth is, Jack-Jack, that I'm scared too. Terrified." It felt good to finally admit her fear, even if it was to her eleventh-month-old son. "I'm just hoping, praying, that Daddy comes and finds us soon."

"Dada?" Jack repeated, looking around for his father.

"Yes. Daddy."

Sian sat with Jack in her lap for a while, until Jack grew weary and crawled off to sleep next to his sister. Sian went back to her fretting and her _I should haves_.

_I should have somehow been able to protect myself from Joseph_, Sian thought. _Or at least, I should have been able to keep him from taking Jack and Violet. I should have been able to realize that he was spying on us._

For one brief, treacherous second, the question _Should I have even married Sherlock?_ popped in her head. Sian considered.

Yes, if she had rejected his proposal, then she most definitely would not be sitting here in a strange room chained to the wall. But would it be worth it in the end, abandoning all that she had over the past two years? Her loving husband, her two, and soon to be three, children? Never.

_I most definitely should have married Sherlock,_ Sian decided firmly. _Even if I'm sitting here, certainly doomed, I should have. I love him._

---

In the east side of London, four men could be seen standing in front of an old building on Arden Street. The building wasn't much to look at—just another rundown old edifice, perhaps once grand in yesteryear, but dilapidated from present neglect. The men, however, were a varied and motley group. One man was tall and lean, with his sharp facial features screwed into an expression of worry. To his left was a short and rather rat-faced looking man, his face free from emotion, and to his right was a taller man, who was very obviously fretting over something. The fourth man, standing all the way to the right, was also visibly fearful, and kept absentmindedly adjusting his glasses or biting the end of his thumb.

"And you're sure that this is where she is?" the rat-faced man asked.

"Of course I'm sure," the tallest man answered. "If I wasn't, we wouldn't be standing here right now."

"Well, let's get on with it," the bespectacled man said agitatedly. "I hate to think that Sian's in there and all we're doing is chatting amongst ourselves outside."

"Let's move around to the rear of the building," the tallest man said, "and we can plan from there."

---

"What should we do?" Ernest whispered when they got to the back of the building.

"I'm not sure," Holmes admitted. "I've never dealt with a hostage situation before."

"What! But you're a detective!"

"A _consulting _detective," Holmes corrected. "Most of my work is done in my parlor. And even when it isn't, never before have the stakes been so high."

"Well, give us your best guess, Holmes," Watson said.

"I suppose—I suppose we should venture in," he finally said. "Moriarty would hardly be expecting us this late at night, so we have the element of surprise on our side. I just want this to be a quick affair—go in, find Sian and the twins, get them out of there, and get them home."

"What about Moriarty?" Watson asked.

"Lestrade can take care of him," Holmes said. To Lestrade, he said, "Arrest him, and make sure he never again sees the outside world without bars in front of his face."

"Assuredly," Lestrade agreed.

The men were able to open the back door with the aid of a skeleton key. They snuck in. The entire wood floor was covered in dirt and grime, with dust covering every imaginable surface. The only clear spots on the floor were the scrapes of feet through the dust.

"Come on," Holmes whispered, once his eyes adjusted to the lightless room.

They crept forward, and reached a staircase.

"Watson, you and Ernest stay down here and continue looking on this level," Holmes ordered. "Lestrade and I will go upstairs and search." Watson nodded, and Holmes and Lestrade made their way up the stairs, careful not to make the ancient steps creak as they went.

At the top of the stairs, they found a long hallway, covered in doors, as well as another staircase that led to an upper floor.

"I'll take the stairs," Lestrade decided for them. "And you take the hallway."

"Very well," Holmes agreed.

Lestrade climbed onward, leaving Holmes in the hallway, alone for the first time in a while.

He wondered what it would be like if he found Sian. He still didn't know what her true feelings were—she seemed happy and in love before she was kidnapped, but now the question of whether it was truly love or merely hero-worship plagued his mind. Ernest had assured him it was true love, but honestly, what did he know about their relationship? Maybe it had just been misnamed hero-worship, and maybe Sian had finally realized it and wanted nothing more with him nor their relationship. Holmes decided he wouldn't force himself on Sian until he was positive that she was in love with him.

But that was another matter for another time; right now, he had the question of the doors to deal with. He wandered to the first door and slowly turned the knob. It was unlocked. Holmes didn't think that Moriarty would keep Sian and the children in an unlocked room, but he looked in anyway. It was empty, just as he had known it would be.

The second door provided him with the same luck, but the third proved to be the charm; it was locked. Carefully, slowly, Holmes inserted the skeleton key into the keyhole and gingerly unlocked the door. He replaced the key in his breast pocket and cautiously opened the door.

There, sitting against the back wall, with her face buried in her knees, was his Sian. She was a golden-haired angel trapped in hell, a golden beacon in the dark.

Holmes took a step forward. _ "Sian," _he whispered. Just her name, just a whisper, but somehow, the sound carried perfectly across the room, and Sian glanced up. Their eyes met, and for a moment, they were the only two people in the world.

Holmes didn't remember walking, but somehow, he found himself all the way across the room, with Sian scrambling to her feet in front of them. He tried to remember not to touch her, or force any possibly unwanted affections on her. He folded his hands behind his back. He was resolved.

_"Sherlock."_

And Holmes might have been successful in his resolution, had Sian said anything but his name, in any other way but that breathless whisper. But when she said his name, all other bets were off, and Sian was in his arms, whether she liked it or not.

He leaned down and captured her lips with his, claiming a passionate, desperate, _everything_, kiss. One of his arms was wrapped around her waist, and the other hand had somehow gotten tangled in her golden mane. But Sian's arms were wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer in the kiss. _This,_ Holmes thought hazily,_ was a good sign._

Sian pulled away, and their lips separating made an audible little pop.

"Sherlock," Sian said breathlessly.

"Where are Jack and Violet?"

"Asleep in the corner. But Sherlock," she said urgently, "we have to get out of here. We—" A voice from the doorway interrupted her.

"My, my, my. What a pretty little tableau we have here." Sian and Holmes glanced over at the doorway, where a man was leaning jauntily against the doorframe.

"Moriarty," Holmes growled.

"Finally! Someone recognized me!" Joseph said, sounding genuinely pleased.

"Actually, I had to look you up before I even knew you existed," Holmes drawled. He still hadn't taken his arms from around Sian.

"Don't antagonize him!" Sian whispered, but Joseph heard.

"Yes, don't antagonize me," he mimicked gleefully, "because I'm the one with the gun." With that, he whipped out his revolver, pointing it directly at Sian. "We wouldn't want my finger to slip, now would we?" Holmes scowled. "Now, let go of your pretty little wife, and put your hands in the air." Holmes did as he was instructed, but Joseph still pointed the gun at Sian.

"Leave her alone," Holmes growled. "You have nothing against Sian or Jack or Violet. Your argument is with _me_."

"And that's where you're wrong, Mr. Holmes," Joseph sneered. "I do have something against them, for they are associated with you, either voluntarily by marriage or unintentionally by birth, and they all bear your name. _Holmes._"

"Why don't we just let them go free," Holmes suggested, tying his hardest to sound calm, "and you and I can discuss your, er, _our _problem."

"Or, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Joseph said. "But no. I'm slowing getting back what is mine. I have the laboratory, the inter-epoch mechanism, and now I'm getting my revenge, because you killed my brother with his own device."

"The transporter?"

"Yes, yes! The transporter! The IEM!"

"If your evil brother means that much to you, why don't you just use the damn thing to bring him back," Sian muttered. Joseph stared daggers at her.

"I don't know how to use the IEM. All I want with it is to have, since it was created by a Moriarty!

"And I've had it with your sassiness," he continued harshly, training the gun on Sian. "You think I've hurt you before, Holmes, eh? Well, we'll see how you like it when you watch me kill your wife and children."

Joseph pulled the trigger. The bullet shot from the muzzle of the revolver, spinning towards Sian. Holmes automatically pushed Sian out of the way, but not before catching the bullet in his right shoulder.

"Ahh!" Holmes groaned, collapsing to the floor.

_"Sherlock!" _Sian screamed, dropping to her knees by his side. She cradled his head in her lap and frantically covered the bullet hole with her hands, trying desperately to keep the blood from spurting out.

The gunshot woke the formerly-sleeping Jack and Violet. They immediately began screaming and crying.

"Shut them up!" Joseph screamed.

"Jack, Violet!" Sian called pleadingly, glancing at the babies, but staying by Sherlock.

"Well, that wasn't what I had planned, Holmes," Joseph said, taking a single step forward. "But maybe it's an improvement. I think I'll kill you right now, and your last dying thought will be how you couldn't do a thing to save your wife and children."

"_No!_ Please, don't!" Sian begged as the tears streamed down her face. Holmes merely gritted his teeth, refusing to show fear. He reached one of his weak hands for Sian's wrist, and feebly grasped it. He closed his eyes.

A gun went off.


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: If I was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, then that would mean that I was remarkably well-preserved since the nineteenth century. And a man. And since that neither of those statements is accurate, I'll deny being him.

Chapter Nineteen

Joseph collapsed on the floor, and Sian and Holmes were able to see who had fired the fateful shot. Watson and Ernest were both standing in the doorway, and although both men were holding guns, it was Watson's gun that was still smoking.

Sian was so caught up in the moment that it didn't even hit her that her father was there, dressed as fine as any other nineteenth century gentleman, with her husband's best friend; all Sian could think about at the present was Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson! Dad!" she cried. "Sherlock's been shot."

"We heard the gunshot and came up as fast as we could," Watson said, rushing forward to help his fallen friend.

"Wait—oooh!" Holmes groaned as Watson and Ernest helped him to his feet.

"Yes?"

"My skeleton key—it's in my pocket. Take it and unlock Sian."

Just then, Lestrade rushed into the room.

"I heard a gunshot!" he shouted, but then he noticed what was going on in the room. "My God! What happened?"

"Moriarty shot him," Watson explained tersely.

"And where is Moriarty?"

"Dead on the floor." Lestrade blanched.

Ernest released Sian from her fetter, and she threw her arms around his neck. She needed to feel something real, just to make sure this was really happening. Sian was feeling so many emotions—fear, relief, exhaustion, and so on—that she could only relieve them in one way; she began to cry.

"Shh, shh," Ernest said, rubbing her back as she cried onto his shoulder, like she had done so many years ago. "It's okay, Sian. It's all over now."

Holmes, in pain, glanced over at his wife with her father. He wished he could be the one comforting her. His heart panged.

"Come, Holmes," Watson said, holding onto his arm. "We need to get you back to Baker Street immediately."

"Right," Holmes wheezed.

"Lestrade," Watson said. "You take care of Moriarty's body."

"And what about Mrs. Holmes and the children?" Watson glanced over at her. She was still sobbing in her father's arms.

"I think Mr. Fairfax can handle her," he said, and he led Holmes out.

---

Sian finally cried every tear she had within her. She looked up, and her father smiled down at her. She wiped a tear away.

"Sorry I got your shirt all wet, Daddy," was all she could think to say. She finally realized how strange it was that her father was there at all. Ernest chuckled.

"That's okay, Sian."

"Dad—" she started to say, but she was interrupted.

"Ahem," Lestrade coughed conspicuously. Ernest and Sian glanced at him. "I think, Mrs. Holmes, that you might want to, ah, relocate. But shield your eyes," he warned. "There is, ah, a person on the floor. And he is no longer living."

Sian was too tired even to bother with her façade of a sheltered female anymore.

"I know, Lestrade," she said. "There is a dead body on the floor. Moriarty is dead. I watched him die. He's dead as a doornail. He's kicked the bucket. He's bit the dust. Soon he'll be six feet under." Lestrade gaped.

"Be careful, Mr. Lestrade," Sian said as she walked over to the corner and picked up Jack and Violet. "There's a lot of blood on the floor. I wouldn't want you to slip." Lestrade gaped some more. "Come on, Dad," and with that, she left the room.

---

Sian and Ernest hailed a cab soon after Sian's dramatic exit. In the carriage, Sian was leaned up against her father, and each with a baby in their lap.

"So," Ernest said. "This is Jack and Violet."

"Yes," Sian said. "They're going to be one in two weeks."

"When's they're birthday?"

"February twenty-fourth."

"They're sweet." He bounced Jack on his knee. Jack laughed. "You know, Jack has your eyes," Ernest noted.

"Yes," Sian agreed. "He's a good mix of Holmes and Fairfax. But Violet—" Sian kissed her daughter on the head. "—Violet looks just like her daddy.

"She does," Ernest agreed admiringly.

"Sherlock—do you think he'll be alright?" Sian asked. Ernest bit his lip.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," he finally said.

"I wish there was such a thing as an Emergency Room we could take him to," Sian fretted."

"Well, Dr. Watson was there to take care of him," Ernest pointed out. "I'm sure that between him and Mrs. Hudson back at Baker Street, Sherlock is in fine hands."

"I hope so." Sian hugged Violet close to her, trying to look nonchalant, but Ernest could still see the obvious fear still in her brown eyes.

They finally reached Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was at the door to greet them.

"Mrs. Holmes!" she cried when Sian walked through the door. "I'm so glad to see you and the children home safe!"

"Thank you. How is Sherlock?"

"Dr. Watson is up there with him. He's working to remove the bullet." Sian shuttered. "There's not much for us to do to help him," Mrs. Hudson continued, "so why don't we get you three settled in. I've prepared some food for you, and right now I'm running a hot bath."

"Mrs. Hudson, you're an angel," Sian said

---

Soon enough, Jack and Violet were fed, bathed, and put to bed. Sian, too, had eaten, cleaned herself up, and was wearing a fresh nightgown. She wandered into the parlor, where her father was sitting, reading _the London Times._

"Enjoying your paper?" Sian asked teasingly. Ernest looked up.

"It's a little strange when your current events are my history," he said jovially, folding up the newspaper and setting it aside. Sian curled up in her father's lap, as if she was a little girl of five instead of a woman twenty years older.

"Daddy, I just want to apologize for running off like I did two years ago," she said. "I'm sure I've caused you and Mom and everyone else nothing but grief and pain, and I'm sorry for it. But, Sherlock asked me to marry him, and I was so happy that the only person I could think of was myself. That wasn't right of me."

"Sian, honey, you were in love," Ernest said, tweaking one of her golden locks. "While I will admit that that wasn't the most convenient way for you to go off and be married, you were in love. I understand."

Sian rested her head against her father's chest.

"Do you love Sherlock?"

"More than anything else in the world," she said simply. "I don't think I could go on without him."

"Then maybe you should go upstairs and tell him that."

"I will." Sian stood up. "Thanks, Dad." She kissed his cheek, and went upstairs.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

A Note: This chapter is dedicated to Kayla and Jenna… and when you two get to the certain line, you'll know why! (-:

Chapter Twenty

Sian stood outside her and Sherlock's bedroom door. She had been standing there for a few minutes, although she didn't understand why.

_Why should I be nervous about going to see my own husband?_ Sian wondered, but she knew that's why she had been putting off the meeting. What if he were to die, or be permanently injured, because of her stupidity? Granted, she hadn't exactly asked to be kidnapped, but she still was blaming herself anyway.

She shook her head at her own ridiculousness, banished her fear, and opened the door.

Straight ahead of her she could see their bed. Sherlock was lying on the bed, with his shirt off and his shoulder and chest covered with starched-white bandages, with Watson standing vigil by his side. She pushed the door open even further.

"Sherlock?" Sian said quietly. She couldn't tell if he was sleeping, and she didn't want to wake him if he was. But no. At the sound of his name, not only did Watson glance over his shoulder to look at her, but Sherlock lifted his head up to look at her too.

"Sian!" he said happily.

"H—how are you feeling?" she asked, taking a step forward.

"I'm much better now."

"Truly?"

"Yes. Within the past sixty seconds, I feel as if I've improved dramatically." That was all the invitation Sian needed. Without paying any heed to Dr. Watson's presence, Sian climbed onto the bed next to Sherlock. Watson discretely left the room.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" Sian asked teasingly. "That answer didn't much sound like you at all."

"I'm tipsy," Sherlock explained. "It's all the brandy that Watson's been giving me that's talking."

"Oh." Sian tried not to sound disappointed.

"Not that the sentiment's not the same," Sherlock said, reaching his good arm out to touch Sian. "Because it is." Sian laughed. She entwined her fingers with Sherlock's.

"Maybe we should give you brandy more often," she teased.

"Maybe it's a good thing that I'm tipsy, because now I'm going to ask you something, and I'm going to ask it straight." Sherlock squeezed her hand tight. "Sian, do you want to stay here with me?" A confused look crossed Sian's face, which Sherlock, even with his brandy-clogged brain, took to be a good sign.

"Of course I do," Sian said. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Oh, Sian, you don't know how happy you've made me," Sherlock said, squeezing her hand even tighter. "You don't even want to know what I was thinking." They sat in silence.

"Our marriage…." Sherlock began. Sian nodded. "Sian, I've been… doubting you too much, and for that I'm sorry."

"I'm at fault, too," Sian protested. "I refuse to let you make yourself the bad guy. I've been screwing up too. Probably even more so. Do I need to remind you about my bout of depression there for a while?" Sherlock smiled.

"No, you don't need to." He bit his lip. "So you don't think that the problem was us together, but more like you and me separately?"

"I think the problem was that we expected it to be a wedding followed by 'and they lived happily every after,' " Sian said dryly. "Our life isn't a storybook, even if you _are_ a literary character, Sherlock Holmes." Holmes laughed. "What I think we need to do is stop expecting marriage to be perfect," Sian continued slowly. "I don't think there's such a thing as happily ever after, because there's life after that, and life isn't perfect. But I do think that there is happiness in life, but you need to take it with the lumps that go along with life too."

"Eloquent as always," Sherlock teased, kissing her hand. Sian rolled her eyes.

"Sink me, Sherlock, but that's what you get when you marry an English teacher," she told him. He gave her a strange look.

"Well, that was a new one," he said, raising his eyebrows. Sian blushed.

"Sorry. English teacher moment." She paused. "_The Scarlet Pimpernel_ hasn't even been written yet." They laughed.

After a moment, Sian lifted herself up on her arms, so that she was looking down at Sherlock.

"Sherlock," she said. "I have something to tell you."

"Oh?" he asked, his eyes dancing.

"Yes. But something serious. No teasing."

"Very well."

"I love you," she said. "I've always loved you and I always will love you. I can't imagine life without you. And I know that I said nothing is perfect, and I know that I'm far from perfect, but I think that you are perfect for me. I just wanted you to know that." He smiled.

"My Sian. You probably know how much you've changed my life. Just three years ago, I was adamant about never falling in love or getting married, but then I met you, and you changed that for me. I fell in love with you, I married you, and I'm certain that I couldn't be any happier. I love you, Sian."

"Maybe we should get you tipsy more often," Sian tittered nervously.

"That was_ not_ the brandy speaking that time."

---

"Holmes?" Watson called, heading upstairs. He hadn't checked on his patient for some time, and he needed to change his bandages anyway.

"Holmes?" he said again, slowly opening the bedroom door. Holmes was lying on the bed right where he left him, sound asleep, with his good arm wrapped around his slumbering wife, who was curled up to his side. Watson slowly shut the door.

Well, he needed his rest, too.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is still not mine

A Note: well, this is it—my last chapter for this story. Thanks to everyone who has followed it from the start, and especially to all my reviewers. I'm not sure if I'll write another story about Sian and Sherlock, but I'm fairly certain that I'll eventually write one about Violet Holmes (Sherlock's daughter, that is—not his mother). Anyway, thanks again!

Chapter Twenty-One

"So, what else has happened since I've been gone?" Sian asked her father the next day at breakfast.

Sian, Holmes, and Ernest were all seated at the dining table the next morning. Sian had tried her best to keep Sherlock in bed, but he had argued that nothing was wrong with his legs, and he outright refused to be mollycoddled like an invalid. This had upset Sian at the time, but she had long-since forgotten to be peeved, since he was holding her hand under the breakfast table.

Ernest chewed his eggs, considering. He swallowed. "Chelsea had another baby," he said. "A girl. She turned one last October." Sian and Holmes exchanged glances.

"What's her name?" Sian asked eagerly. "Is it another city, like Paris and London?" Ernest nodded grimly. "What is it?"

"Roma Italia," he said.

"What?" Sian asked, cringing slightly.

"Yeah, I know," Ernest agreed.

"That's not nearly as good as my suggestion," Holmes observed austerely as he ate his toast. Sian laughed, remembering back when she and Sherlock had suggested some rather outlandish cities for Chelsea's future children.

"Any other news?" Sian asked.

"Well… Chelsea and Dennis are getting divorced."

"She's better off without him," Sian noted, "but I still feel awful for her. What happened?"

"Dennis… well, he was cheating on her," Ernest said carefully. "And Chelsea found out."

"Oh no!"

"And I kick myself everyday for giving her away to such a man," he muttered.

"Dad… I'm sorry that you weren't able to give me away," Sian said softly.

"I never was worried about you. You gave yourself away, and to a much better man than Dennis Kent. I don't need to worry about Sherlock becoming an alcoholic, losing his job, and abandoning you and your children. He seems faithful to me."

"Thank you, sir," Holmes said.

"That reminds me!" Sian said. She turned to her husband, taking his hands in hers. "Sherlock, I should have told you this as soon as I realized, but… I'm pregnant."

"I know."

"You know?" Sian gave him a confused look. "How could you know?"

"Perhaps I should have feigned surprised," Holmes admitted. "Please don't hold it against him, but Watson told me, while you were, um, kidnapped. He felt I should know. I'm sorry for the lack of surprise on my part."

"No. I'm happy you knew—while I was kidnapped, I just kept wishing that I had told you, so you'd've known in case anything happened to me."

"Well, I have the perfect name for the baby it's a girl," Holmes suddenly announced.

"You do?" Sian asked skeptically.

"Yes. Regina."

"Regina?"

"Yes. But only if her middle name can be Saskatchewan."

"Not on your life."

---

"I should probably go home soon," Ernest said after breakfast. The three were sitting in the parlor with Jack and Violet; Holmes was resting on the sofa, Ernest was in the armchair, bouncing Violet on his knee, and Sian was on the floor playing with blocks with Jack.

Sian looked up at her father. She loved seeing him after two years of missing her family fiercely, but she knew that his visit had to end sometime.

"Yes, I suppose you should," she sighed, getting to her feet.

"Can I—can I say what happened to you?" he asked. "I mean, about the time-travel thing?" Sian stole a glance at Holmes, who merely shrugged a shoulder, and then groaned from pain.

"I guess you can tell Mom and Chelsea," she said. "But I wouldn't tell many more people than that."

"Of course. I don't want people to think my sanity's slipping in my old age." Ernest set Violet on the floor and hugged Sian.

"You know, Mr. Fairfax," Holmes said. "You're always welcome to come visit us." Ernest looked at him.

"Am I allowed to do that?" he wondered. Holmes remembered not to shrug as a response this time.

"Why not?" he said. "We have the Moriartys' transporters. Why not put them to good use?"

"Besides," Sian added, "it would be a shame for Jack and Violet and Not-Regina never to know one of their grandfathers." Ernest chuckled.

"Then I'll visit you often," he promised. And with another good-bye kiss to his daughter and grandchildren and a handshake with his son-in-law, Ernest returned to his own time.

Sian sat on the sofa next to Sherlock, contemplative.

"So, it's Not-Regina, is it?" he asked, motioning to her still-flat belly.

"That's right," Sian agreed with a nod.

"Well, if you're going to be so picky, then why don't you choose a name?" he teased.

"I like Olivia," Sian said after some consideration. Sherlock nodded in approval.

"Very well. Then as long as it's a girl, Olivia Holmes it is."


End file.
